"Personification of day-time television, you stand accused of being absolutely shit, how do you plead?" asks the judge.
"I swear that isn't even a proper crime, I don't know why I'm here at all," the personification of day-time television protests. If you're having a bit of trouble picturing what it looks like, it basically looks like a horrendous cross between Jeremy Kyle, Dick Van-Dyke from Diagnosis Murder and one of the Loose Women. With David Dickinson's glasses on.
"How do you plead??" the judge repeats. He's literally having none of it.
"Innocent. I suppose."
Yeah even day-time t.v knows deep down that it's a useless tosser. The trial proceeds, and the prosecution brings out a house wife as the first witness. The prosecution lawyer is ridiculously suave and on-the-ball by the way, but day-time t.v's laywer is proper fat and stupid looking.
"Now, Mrs. Robinson, tell us about the horrific onslaught you suffered at the hands of day-time t.v."
"Well, it was about 1 in the afternoon and I didn't have much to do particularly, so I thought I'd watch some television. However, despite me having Sky plus and having a wealth of channels to choose from, all I could find was...." she begins to cry a little here.
"It's alright Mrs. Robinson," the suave prosecution says.
"....All I could find to watch was some useless bollocks about antiques...."
The jury gasp in horror.
"That's not true!! I swear I was showing something well good about a couple moving house or something!" day-time t.v protests.
"Objection! That program was absolute shit!" the prosecution counters. Day-time t.v looks flustered and is about to offer a pathetic come-back but the judge starts smacking his table with that gay little hammer like mad.
"Order!!" he yells, literally losing his rag.
The fat stupid-looking defence lawyer has a go now.
"I'd like to call out an ill school-child to the stand," he says. Up walks the ill school-child in his pyjamas with a thermometer in his mouth.
"Now then, on your day off you watched a lot of day-time television, am I right?" the fat defence lawyer asks, dabbing at his sweaty brow with a hankie.
"Yeah but it was all rubbish."
Absolute hubbub from the jury.
"What!! What about those cartoons I was showing?" day-time t.v wails.
"They were all from the 80s and didn't make any sense..." the ill school-child reasons. The fat defence lawyer literally shrugs.
"Fucking hell. I'm going down big-time for this," day-time t.v says, head in hands.
The judge reaches for his black cap.
"Even though we don't do the death penalty anymore, your crimes are so heinous and unforgivable that I am sentencing you to be shot in the face. You will be replaced by amazingly good programs about dickhead Brits getting pissed in Eastern Europe and car chases and shit. There will be no more bollocks about buying a holiday house in Spain or stuff about the countryside, or absolute scum talking about their problems. Now fuck off."
By the way the twist is the judge was actually day-time t.v's dad.
(Absolute gasp)
Saturday, 27 February 2010
And Thus, Humpty-Dumpty Joined the Queue at the Dole Office
They never specified what Humpty-Dumpty's job was before he went and sat on that wall and took a fucking drop did they? I suppose it might have slowed down the pace of the nursery rhyme somewhat, similar to how some director's cuts of films can result in the film feeling bloated and aimless. But still, I would've liked to have known whether or not Humpty-Dumpty was a good hard-working member of our society or simply a leech on the tax-payer's money, just as I am going to be as soon as I leave university (if I don't shoot/hang/drown myself first), so I'd know how sorry to feel for him when he smashes into loads of pieces.
My feeling is that he was fucking unemployed. I mean think about it, he's a massive egg. That's all he would've had to put on his CV isn't it really? "I'm a massive egg."
It's not as if eggs go and get GCSEs or anything like that, they're too busy sitting in cardboard egg-crates or inside the egg rack of a fridge. It's just that Humpty-Dumpty decided to take the liberty of giving himself an identity and becoming a 'person'. That's a bit cheeky of him isn't it? It's the same principle as your cat one day decided to press charges against you for confining him in a house against his will, or for picking him up without his permission.
"Rape!!" the cat yells as you stroke it.
"It wasn't, I was stroking you," you protest.
"Did I say you could though?"
"Well no but you're a cat."
"So? Oooh you wait till my solicitor hears about this."
See, that'd be shit wouldn't it? And I imagine that the people who were around in Humpty-Dumpty's time thought it was just as shit when he joined the queue at the dole office, as if he's entitled to. He'd be standing there all sheepish like, taking up loads of room because of his enormous circumference, hoping nobody notices him. Inevitably, disapproving whispers would begin all around him.
"He's not even from round here...."
"Should be in an omelette...."
"Look at his fucking face...."
How cruel the human race can be. But then again, I'm taking their side, because I'm a human, not a fucking egg. I imagine it was these harsh comments in the dole office that provoked the bastard to sit on that wall all upset in the first place. Could've even been a hateful member of the BNP who pushed him off, who knows?
It's none of my business, all I'm saying is women are inferior to men.
(Kirk gets pelted with rotten fruit)
My feeling is that he was fucking unemployed. I mean think about it, he's a massive egg. That's all he would've had to put on his CV isn't it really? "I'm a massive egg."
It's not as if eggs go and get GCSEs or anything like that, they're too busy sitting in cardboard egg-crates or inside the egg rack of a fridge. It's just that Humpty-Dumpty decided to take the liberty of giving himself an identity and becoming a 'person'. That's a bit cheeky of him isn't it? It's the same principle as your cat one day decided to press charges against you for confining him in a house against his will, or for picking him up without his permission.
"Rape!!" the cat yells as you stroke it.
"It wasn't, I was stroking you," you protest.
"Did I say you could though?"
"Well no but you're a cat."
"So? Oooh you wait till my solicitor hears about this."
See, that'd be shit wouldn't it? And I imagine that the people who were around in Humpty-Dumpty's time thought it was just as shit when he joined the queue at the dole office, as if he's entitled to. He'd be standing there all sheepish like, taking up loads of room because of his enormous circumference, hoping nobody notices him. Inevitably, disapproving whispers would begin all around him.
"He's not even from round here...."
"Should be in an omelette...."
"Look at his fucking face...."
How cruel the human race can be. But then again, I'm taking their side, because I'm a human, not a fucking egg. I imagine it was these harsh comments in the dole office that provoked the bastard to sit on that wall all upset in the first place. Could've even been a hateful member of the BNP who pushed him off, who knows?
It's none of my business, all I'm saying is women are inferior to men.
(Kirk gets pelted with rotten fruit)
Saturday, 20 February 2010
A Real-Life True Account of a Genie in a Bottle
Simon was walking along the pebbly beach front with his hands in his pockets, allowing the breeze to sweep his hair and admiring the sunny view. The thing is though, Simon was one of those guys with the sort of face that looks really depressed all the time, even though he might be perfectly complacent. As a result of this a lot of passers-by thought he was contemplating chucking himself in the sea in a fit of depression.
"You alright mate?" people would be saying as they walked past him.
"Yeah fine thanks," Simon replies, somewhat confused. The person would carry on walking but would literally keep looking back to check he doesn't try and top himself. 'Poor lad,' people think as they see his absolutely sullen face.
Anyway, Simon's strolling along, just passing the time on a lazy Sunday, when suddenly his foot catches something embedded in the stones.
"What's this?" he asks himself. He reaches down and retrieves what looks like an ornamental oil lamp. "Might be worth something," he muses, just as somebody is about to ask him if he's alright coz his thinking face looks even more fucking depressed than his normal one. He begins to polish his lamp (wahey) to get some of the dust off, WHEN SUDDENLY, a motherfucking genie comes out in a puff of smoke.
"Aha! I'm Shalam-Zahai, the powerful genie."
You'd think that Simon would be shocked by a motherfucking genie coming out of a lamp but he's not because it's such a fucking cliche staple of storytelling, so he's not shocked at all and immediately comes to terms with it. This lack of reaction, coupled with Simon's depressed-looking face, provokes to genie to worry about his well-being.
"You alright mate?' he asks. Simon nods.
"Yeah, why?"
".....Nothing, doesn't matter. Anyways, yeah, I'm Shalam-Zahai, the powerful genie. For freeing me from the lamp, I will grant you THREE wishes!"
"Oh right."
"......Seriously mate are you okay? You can tell me."
"Yes I'm fine!"
"Alright. I'm just checking coz you look a bit..."
"A bit what?"
"Nothing, nothing. But yeah, THREE wishes. What shall be your first??" Shalam-Zahai asks, doing some sort of genie-pose. By the way, if you're thinking Shalam-Zahai looks exactly like a genie like the one from Alladin you're sort of right but also completely wrong, coz he's got a massive ginger afro. And his shoes don't really suit him either. They're like those ones that River Island do, all 'distressed' looking and with loads of pointless detailing on them. They look a bit too big for him as well. Simon can't help but keep looking at them and Shalam-Zahai notices and gets well self-conscious, but he doesn't wanna let this on because he's meant to be an all-powerful genie who isn't troubled by such trivial matters. But he is.
"Umm...money? I suppose."
".....Could you please specify what you mean by money?"
"Well. I don't know really. Just some money. Quite a lot I suppose."
"Right.....okay. SHAZAMMMM!" he says, and out pops a £50 note. "There you have it!"
Unfortunately, Simon meant considerably more money than this, but he already feels bad about staring at the genie's shoes so blatantly so he does the thing you have to do at Christmas when you pretend you love a present.
"Wow, wicked. Cheers mate."
"What will you have for your second wish?"
"Um. I dunno maybe some more money..."
"But I just gave you some."
"Yeah but..."
"What?"
"Oh no nothing, it doesn't matter, yeah this is fine. Um yeah okay then can I have like a plasma-screen t.v then or something?"
"SHAZAMMM!!" he declares, and a plasma-screen t.v materialises. However, Simon immediately realises that wishing for a t.v in this situation was something of a faux-pas because it's really cumbersome and he's worried it'll get splashed by sea-spray.
"Fucking hell," Simon says (wahey) under his breath.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Listen mate if you're not gonna appreciate any of these wishes then I just won't bother," Shalam-Zahai says, his eyes tearing up a little bit. Yeah, he's a sensitive genie.
"Don't get like that about it."
"I'm not getting like anything!" he protests, when he literally is.
"You're just like my bloody girlfriend."
"Well I'm not gay."
"I never said you were?"
"Well you kind of did."
"Alright, do you know what, I want my last wish for you to stop fucking bitching."
"Well I'm not granting that."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Just leave it out will you?"
And yeah it turns out Simon doesn't actually have a girlfriend anyway.
"You alright mate?" people would be saying as they walked past him.
"Yeah fine thanks," Simon replies, somewhat confused. The person would carry on walking but would literally keep looking back to check he doesn't try and top himself. 'Poor lad,' people think as they see his absolutely sullen face.
Anyway, Simon's strolling along, just passing the time on a lazy Sunday, when suddenly his foot catches something embedded in the stones.
"What's this?" he asks himself. He reaches down and retrieves what looks like an ornamental oil lamp. "Might be worth something," he muses, just as somebody is about to ask him if he's alright coz his thinking face looks even more fucking depressed than his normal one. He begins to polish his lamp (wahey) to get some of the dust off, WHEN SUDDENLY, a motherfucking genie comes out in a puff of smoke.
"Aha! I'm Shalam-Zahai, the powerful genie."
You'd think that Simon would be shocked by a motherfucking genie coming out of a lamp but he's not because it's such a fucking cliche staple of storytelling, so he's not shocked at all and immediately comes to terms with it. This lack of reaction, coupled with Simon's depressed-looking face, provokes to genie to worry about his well-being.
"You alright mate?' he asks. Simon nods.
"Yeah, why?"
".....Nothing, doesn't matter. Anyways, yeah, I'm Shalam-Zahai, the powerful genie. For freeing me from the lamp, I will grant you THREE wishes!"
"Oh right."
"......Seriously mate are you okay? You can tell me."
"Yes I'm fine!"
"Alright. I'm just checking coz you look a bit..."
"A bit what?"
"Nothing, nothing. But yeah, THREE wishes. What shall be your first??" Shalam-Zahai asks, doing some sort of genie-pose. By the way, if you're thinking Shalam-Zahai looks exactly like a genie like the one from Alladin you're sort of right but also completely wrong, coz he's got a massive ginger afro. And his shoes don't really suit him either. They're like those ones that River Island do, all 'distressed' looking and with loads of pointless detailing on them. They look a bit too big for him as well. Simon can't help but keep looking at them and Shalam-Zahai notices and gets well self-conscious, but he doesn't wanna let this on because he's meant to be an all-powerful genie who isn't troubled by such trivial matters. But he is.
"Umm...money? I suppose."
".....Could you please specify what you mean by money?"
"Well. I don't know really. Just some money. Quite a lot I suppose."
"Right.....okay. SHAZAMMMM!" he says, and out pops a £50 note. "There you have it!"
Unfortunately, Simon meant considerably more money than this, but he already feels bad about staring at the genie's shoes so blatantly so he does the thing you have to do at Christmas when you pretend you love a present.
"Wow, wicked. Cheers mate."
"What will you have for your second wish?"
"Um. I dunno maybe some more money..."
"But I just gave you some."
"Yeah but..."
"What?"
"Oh no nothing, it doesn't matter, yeah this is fine. Um yeah okay then can I have like a plasma-screen t.v then or something?"
"SHAZAMMM!!" he declares, and a plasma-screen t.v materialises. However, Simon immediately realises that wishing for a t.v in this situation was something of a faux-pas because it's really cumbersome and he's worried it'll get splashed by sea-spray.
"Fucking hell," Simon says (wahey) under his breath.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Listen mate if you're not gonna appreciate any of these wishes then I just won't bother," Shalam-Zahai says, his eyes tearing up a little bit. Yeah, he's a sensitive genie.
"Don't get like that about it."
"I'm not getting like anything!" he protests, when he literally is.
"You're just like my bloody girlfriend."
"Well I'm not gay."
"I never said you were?"
"Well you kind of did."
"Alright, do you know what, I want my last wish for you to stop fucking bitching."
"Well I'm not granting that."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Just leave it out will you?"
And yeah it turns out Simon doesn't actually have a girlfriend anyway.
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Hell
The queue would be bloody massive for a start, and imagine how horrible the bouncers at the gates of Hell are going to be. Literally 100 times worse than the bouncers for Oceana.
"Can I see your I.D mate?" says one of them, literally 15 feet tall and wearing the biggest bouncer coat you've ever seen. I wonder where bouncers get those coats from anyway? A specialist company or something maybe. Doesn't really matter anymore anyways, you're in HELLLL.
"Is that really necessary? I'm dead."
"Are you getting lippy mate?" says the bouncer, with the other one approaching quietly so as to maybe slap you on the head if you say one more thing even slightly out of line. I saw a bouncer slap a guy right on his bald head once and it was so loud, I'm serious. It was like fucking thunder.
"No no, I mean it's just I lost my wallet in the transition between the physical and eternal plane that's all, I'm sorry."
After a very long and tedious argument with the two demonic bouncers, with them being even more bouncer-stubborn and bouncer-stupid than the ones on Earth, you eventually get in. Once inside you realise you've sort of stitched yourself up a bit by trying so hard to get into Hell because it's meant to be bloody horrible, but you don't have much time to think about it because somebody barges into you.
"Oh sorry mate," you say instinctively, being quite an easy-going and respectable fellow. The person you bumped into, who happens to be Harold Shipman, seems puzzled at your politeness.
"Is that a joke? Why are you still being polite when you're in Hell? It's not like you're trying to get on any celestial entity's good side now, is it?" he reasons.
"Well that's not the reason I was polite on Earth, it just seems right, like."
Harold Shipman frowns at you like you're fucking mental.
"You're not right, mate!" he stammers, walking off and sitting by a burning pile of corpses or something similarly Hellish. You consider following him and continuing your debate, seeing as you're not entirely sure what else to do with yourself, but decide against it because he smelt a bit like B.O anyway. So, you just sort of dawdle around for a few hours, occasionally stumbling a bit on a pitchfork, and end up getting a bit bored.
"Thought Hell was meant to be worse than this. I'm just bored," you say aloud. The landscape doesn't help matters, it's just red, barren, and a bit flamey. Not even many landmarks to break the place up a bit or anything. However, you see Hitler and Stalin playing badminton and head over to them.
"Alright lads?" you ask, causing Stalin to lose concentration on the game and concede a point.
"Oh fucking cheers mate," he says. The atmosphere gets a bit tense so you move on again.
Thankfully after a while you see what looks like some sort of an establishment in the distance so you head towards this. It turns out to be a swanky nightclub with pumping choons and disco lights and a smoke machine and stuff, and free entry because the management accept that most people lost their wallets in the transition period between Earth and Hell. You're still puzzled as to why you haven't been tortured or at least beaten up yet. Generally you're finding Hell to be something of an anti-climax. You head over to the bar and order a drink.
"A pint please, mate."
"Sorry mate we don't do beer here," the demonic bar man says, who has the face of agony itself.
"Oh right, what do you do?"
"Urm. We do poison ....and......uh....we've got some sulphuric acid....some bile....and some Bacardi Breezers."
"Oh right, maybe I'll leave it then."
As you say this you see an extremely well-dressed and confident looking man stroll over to the bar and get a really bloody nice cocktail. You're absolutely outraged.
"Oy what's that all about? Why does he get a cocktail?" you ask the agony-faced barman, who also has the voice of eternal despair.
"I'd keep your voice down a bit mate, that's Lucifer, he runs this place."
"Oh I see, it's one rule for him and another for the rest of us. Well I've got a bit of a bone to pick with him anyway."
So you make your way through the packed dancefloor, which is filled with people like Atilla the Hun and Jack the Ripper, and tap Lucifer on the shoulder. He's just in the middle of chatting up Cleopatra so he's a bit annoyed at the interruption.
"Yes, what?"
"What's going on, I swear Hell is meant to be eternal torture and punishment and shit. I've been here for like 4 hours now and absolutely bugger-all has happened. What are you playing at, basically?"
Lucifer looks somewhat sheepish at this.
"Listen mate, leave it out. I'm proper snowed under at work at the moment and I haven't really had time to get everybody tortured and stuff....."
"What do you mean 'snowed under at work'? Where do you work?"
"Dixons, I'm a departmental manager."
"Dixons?...." you haven't got time to question him further because Sex On Fire comes on and everybody goes absolutely mental and you get pushed away from him.
Unfortunately you don't bump into him for the rest of the night, so you resort to getting drunk on arsenic and hanging out with Frank Sinatra.
"So did you get loads of people killed in the 50's, then?" you ask him really loudly in his ear. He pretends he doesn't hear you.
So yes, the apathy of our age has even spread to the eternal circles of Hell. Unbelievable isn't it? But in some respect you feel quite lucky that you ended up in Hell, because you realise that Heaven has probably gone a similar way and God can't really be arsed to dish out splendours and joy anymore.
"I'm busy, I've got an essay due," he'd say.
What this country needs is a right kick up the arse.
"Can I see your I.D mate?" says one of them, literally 15 feet tall and wearing the biggest bouncer coat you've ever seen. I wonder where bouncers get those coats from anyway? A specialist company or something maybe. Doesn't really matter anymore anyways, you're in HELLLL.
"Is that really necessary? I'm dead."
"Are you getting lippy mate?" says the bouncer, with the other one approaching quietly so as to maybe slap you on the head if you say one more thing even slightly out of line. I saw a bouncer slap a guy right on his bald head once and it was so loud, I'm serious. It was like fucking thunder.
"No no, I mean it's just I lost my wallet in the transition between the physical and eternal plane that's all, I'm sorry."
After a very long and tedious argument with the two demonic bouncers, with them being even more bouncer-stubborn and bouncer-stupid than the ones on Earth, you eventually get in. Once inside you realise you've sort of stitched yourself up a bit by trying so hard to get into Hell because it's meant to be bloody horrible, but you don't have much time to think about it because somebody barges into you.
"Oh sorry mate," you say instinctively, being quite an easy-going and respectable fellow. The person you bumped into, who happens to be Harold Shipman, seems puzzled at your politeness.
"Is that a joke? Why are you still being polite when you're in Hell? It's not like you're trying to get on any celestial entity's good side now, is it?" he reasons.
"Well that's not the reason I was polite on Earth, it just seems right, like."
Harold Shipman frowns at you like you're fucking mental.
"You're not right, mate!" he stammers, walking off and sitting by a burning pile of corpses or something similarly Hellish. You consider following him and continuing your debate, seeing as you're not entirely sure what else to do with yourself, but decide against it because he smelt a bit like B.O anyway. So, you just sort of dawdle around for a few hours, occasionally stumbling a bit on a pitchfork, and end up getting a bit bored.
"Thought Hell was meant to be worse than this. I'm just bored," you say aloud. The landscape doesn't help matters, it's just red, barren, and a bit flamey. Not even many landmarks to break the place up a bit or anything. However, you see Hitler and Stalin playing badminton and head over to them.
"Alright lads?" you ask, causing Stalin to lose concentration on the game and concede a point.
"Oh fucking cheers mate," he says. The atmosphere gets a bit tense so you move on again.
Thankfully after a while you see what looks like some sort of an establishment in the distance so you head towards this. It turns out to be a swanky nightclub with pumping choons and disco lights and a smoke machine and stuff, and free entry because the management accept that most people lost their wallets in the transition period between Earth and Hell. You're still puzzled as to why you haven't been tortured or at least beaten up yet. Generally you're finding Hell to be something of an anti-climax. You head over to the bar and order a drink.
"A pint please, mate."
"Sorry mate we don't do beer here," the demonic bar man says, who has the face of agony itself.
"Oh right, what do you do?"
"Urm. We do poison ....and......uh....we've got some sulphuric acid....some bile....and some Bacardi Breezers."
"Oh right, maybe I'll leave it then."
As you say this you see an extremely well-dressed and confident looking man stroll over to the bar and get a really bloody nice cocktail. You're absolutely outraged.
"Oy what's that all about? Why does he get a cocktail?" you ask the agony-faced barman, who also has the voice of eternal despair.
"I'd keep your voice down a bit mate, that's Lucifer, he runs this place."
"Oh I see, it's one rule for him and another for the rest of us. Well I've got a bit of a bone to pick with him anyway."
So you make your way through the packed dancefloor, which is filled with people like Atilla the Hun and Jack the Ripper, and tap Lucifer on the shoulder. He's just in the middle of chatting up Cleopatra so he's a bit annoyed at the interruption.
"Yes, what?"
"What's going on, I swear Hell is meant to be eternal torture and punishment and shit. I've been here for like 4 hours now and absolutely bugger-all has happened. What are you playing at, basically?"
Lucifer looks somewhat sheepish at this.
"Listen mate, leave it out. I'm proper snowed under at work at the moment and I haven't really had time to get everybody tortured and stuff....."
"What do you mean 'snowed under at work'? Where do you work?"
"Dixons, I'm a departmental manager."
"Dixons?...." you haven't got time to question him further because Sex On Fire comes on and everybody goes absolutely mental and you get pushed away from him.
Unfortunately you don't bump into him for the rest of the night, so you resort to getting drunk on arsenic and hanging out with Frank Sinatra.
"So did you get loads of people killed in the 50's, then?" you ask him really loudly in his ear. He pretends he doesn't hear you.
So yes, the apathy of our age has even spread to the eternal circles of Hell. Unbelievable isn't it? But in some respect you feel quite lucky that you ended up in Hell, because you realise that Heaven has probably gone a similar way and God can't really be arsed to dish out splendours and joy anymore.
"I'm busy, I've got an essay due," he'd say.
What this country needs is a right kick up the arse.
Saturday, 13 February 2010
Boozers Are Losers, Smokers Are Jokers, Drugs Are For Mugs
This tale takes place in a newsagent in a London borough somewhere. It could be literally any one of the London boroughs, coz they're all exactly the fucking same. If London thinks it's so great maybe it should create some differentiation between the different boroughs or something, like by making them all different colours. I'd like Harrow to be purple, personally. Just putting that one out there.
Anyways, the newsagent. A young man walks in who fancies himself something of a 'cool dude', as it were. He hasn't been to sleep since last night, and as such he thinks he's the fucking don. He hopes that people notice he hasn't been to sleep yet. He makes sure that last night's clothes look suitably bedraggled.
He strolls up to the counter to buy some cigarettes.
"10 pack of Benson and Hedges please mate," he says, making sure he sounds as if he hasn't been to sleep yet. This is achieved by dragging out his words in a tedious attempt at sounding spaced-out or some bollocks. He's basically copying the voice that Pete Doherty always does. The newsagent retrieves the packet and asks for the money. The 'proper rad cool dude' reaches into his pocket and toys with his change.
"Sorry if I take a while mate. I'm a bit spaced out," he says with an expectant grin on his face. He hopes desperately that the newsagent asks the reason for his spaciness. He doesn't.
"I said I'm a bit spaced out. From last night."
"Oh right." the newsagent says, and glances over to his television nonchalantly.
"Yeah. Haven't been to sleep basically. Even though I was wrecked. At a party," the guy continues. The newsagent shrugs.
"Okay I don't think you're getting me. I was up all night. Doing drugs and mad stuff like that. I got off with a few girls as well, and I don't remember their names. What do you think of that?" the guy says, getting a bit antsy now, which renders his forced 'spaced-out' demeanor quite redundant.
"I'm nonplussed to be honest. £3.50 please mate." the newsagent says. The totally cool dude loses his rag big time now.
"This is ridiculous, you square. I've been doing drugs and drinking and smoking all night, why aren't you outraged? Why isn't it challenging your moral outlook on life? Why aren't you appalled at the state of youth today?" he rants. The fucker doesn't even smoke, he only smokes when other people are about.
"Chill out mate," the newsagent suggests, holding out his hand for the change. This pretty much fucks the cool guy's head right up.
"What?....I am chilled out.....I'm a cool guy who does drugs and stuff........this isn't right. It wasn't supposed to be like this."
Absolute epiphany.
The newsagent shrugs again.
The cool guy stumbles out of the newsagent and his trousers fall down around his ankles. What a tosser.
The reason I told you this tale is because people should be aware that nobody gives the slightest fuck about what you do. Being aware of the prospect of drinking, smoking and doing drugs making you cool immediately cancels out any chance of you being considered cool for doing it. Coolness is ignorance of cool, and I know this because Elvis's ghost just told me, and he was well cool.
By the way the newsagent was actually an alien or something like that.
Anyways, the newsagent. A young man walks in who fancies himself something of a 'cool dude', as it were. He hasn't been to sleep since last night, and as such he thinks he's the fucking don. He hopes that people notice he hasn't been to sleep yet. He makes sure that last night's clothes look suitably bedraggled.
He strolls up to the counter to buy some cigarettes.
"10 pack of Benson and Hedges please mate," he says, making sure he sounds as if he hasn't been to sleep yet. This is achieved by dragging out his words in a tedious attempt at sounding spaced-out or some bollocks. He's basically copying the voice that Pete Doherty always does. The newsagent retrieves the packet and asks for the money. The 'proper rad cool dude' reaches into his pocket and toys with his change.
"Sorry if I take a while mate. I'm a bit spaced out," he says with an expectant grin on his face. He hopes desperately that the newsagent asks the reason for his spaciness. He doesn't.
"I said I'm a bit spaced out. From last night."
"Oh right." the newsagent says, and glances over to his television nonchalantly.
"Yeah. Haven't been to sleep basically. Even though I was wrecked. At a party," the guy continues. The newsagent shrugs.
"Okay I don't think you're getting me. I was up all night. Doing drugs and mad stuff like that. I got off with a few girls as well, and I don't remember their names. What do you think of that?" the guy says, getting a bit antsy now, which renders his forced 'spaced-out' demeanor quite redundant.
"I'm nonplussed to be honest. £3.50 please mate." the newsagent says. The totally cool dude loses his rag big time now.
"This is ridiculous, you square. I've been doing drugs and drinking and smoking all night, why aren't you outraged? Why isn't it challenging your moral outlook on life? Why aren't you appalled at the state of youth today?" he rants. The fucker doesn't even smoke, he only smokes when other people are about.
"Chill out mate," the newsagent suggests, holding out his hand for the change. This pretty much fucks the cool guy's head right up.
"What?....I am chilled out.....I'm a cool guy who does drugs and stuff........this isn't right. It wasn't supposed to be like this."
Absolute epiphany.
The newsagent shrugs again.
The cool guy stumbles out of the newsagent and his trousers fall down around his ankles. What a tosser.
The reason I told you this tale is because people should be aware that nobody gives the slightest fuck about what you do. Being aware of the prospect of drinking, smoking and doing drugs making you cool immediately cancels out any chance of you being considered cool for doing it. Coolness is ignorance of cool, and I know this because Elvis's ghost just told me, and he was well cool.
By the way the newsagent was actually an alien or something like that.
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
Assigned Topic: Elevators
Brief: Write A Note About Elevators
Assigned by Jonathan Paul Lennon
The main thing to consider when musing on the topic and concept of elevators is 'trust'. Yes indeed, you are trusting a glorified metal box with your life. If the glorified metal box screws up, that's it. Game over.
Why would you do this? It's not like you trust other metal boxes with your life, is it?
"Okay Mr. Industrial Crate, I'm gonna do a spot of bungee jumping, but I haven't got time to tie the rope coz I'm really quite busy at the moment. Would it be alright if you tie it right now? I trust you enough to not have to check that you do it properly. Okay, cool mate, see you in a minute when I bounce back up or something."
(No reply from the industrial crate)
"Okay sorted, here I go!"
And indeed, you would jump to your death. The repercussions of this act would be legion. First of all, what about your student loan? You never payed that back did you? You scum-bag student, rinsing the tax-payer's money. But, as well as this, imagine the guilt Mr. Industrial Crate would feel for not saving your life. He'd spend the rest of his days drinking himself to death in some run-down bar in Texas.
"I coulda caught him, dammit!" he says as he downs another triple whisky.
"Don't be so hard on yourself Mr. Industrial Crate, you haven't got any arms. Or a face," reasons the bar-keep.
"Oh yeah you had to bring that up didn't you?" the crate yells.
"Okay now I didn't mean anything by it."
"SHUT UP!" he says and throws his glass at the big mirror behind the bar. And in the broken shards of the mirror, guess what he sees? Your fucking face.
But anyway, I've digressed somewhat from my original point. What I'm saying is, putting your life in the hands of a big metal box is not commonplace in our society.
So, seeing as generally this isn't the thing to do, surely we should be made to feel better about ourselves when getting into these elevators, these exaggerated metallic tubs? Perhaps by giving them reassuring personalities, such as the personality of Morgan Freeman, we might feel a whole lot more trusting towards these height-scaling entities.
"Hello there. I'm going to take you safely to your destination," says the voice of Morgan Freeman.
"That's good."
"Yes. Yes it is."
How much better would that be? I'd feel better about the whole thing anyway.
The thing is though, Morgan Freeman's personality don't come cheap. After all, he's a very in-demand actor. Whenever a film needs an omniscient voice-over, it's fucking Morgan Freeman isn't it.
Some of the more budget elevators, such as the ones for a shopping-centre car park in Skegness, could probably only afford the personality of somebody like this prize tosser:
So yeah fucking Joe Swash would be all like "Cor blimey, I'm gonna try and take you up to the third floor but I'll probably balls it up like the cheeky chappy I am and accidentally send you plummeting to your death or summink! Corrrr!!"
And yeah, that'd just make things worse I suppose. But then again, why should we trust them anyway? The way they sometimes take a little bit too long to open their doors, the fact that their maximum weight limit is merely an approximate, and the way the just sit there waiting for you.....
Next time I'm gonna take the fuckin' stairs
Assigned by Jonathan Paul Lennon
The main thing to consider when musing on the topic and concept of elevators is 'trust'. Yes indeed, you are trusting a glorified metal box with your life. If the glorified metal box screws up, that's it. Game over.
Why would you do this? It's not like you trust other metal boxes with your life, is it?
"Okay Mr. Industrial Crate, I'm gonna do a spot of bungee jumping, but I haven't got time to tie the rope coz I'm really quite busy at the moment. Would it be alright if you tie it right now? I trust you enough to not have to check that you do it properly. Okay, cool mate, see you in a minute when I bounce back up or something."
(No reply from the industrial crate)
"Okay sorted, here I go!"
And indeed, you would jump to your death. The repercussions of this act would be legion. First of all, what about your student loan? You never payed that back did you? You scum-bag student, rinsing the tax-payer's money. But, as well as this, imagine the guilt Mr. Industrial Crate would feel for not saving your life. He'd spend the rest of his days drinking himself to death in some run-down bar in Texas.
"I coulda caught him, dammit!" he says as he downs another triple whisky.
"Don't be so hard on yourself Mr. Industrial Crate, you haven't got any arms. Or a face," reasons the bar-keep.
"Oh yeah you had to bring that up didn't you?" the crate yells.
"Okay now I didn't mean anything by it."
"SHUT UP!" he says and throws his glass at the big mirror behind the bar. And in the broken shards of the mirror, guess what he sees? Your fucking face.
But anyway, I've digressed somewhat from my original point. What I'm saying is, putting your life in the hands of a big metal box is not commonplace in our society.
So, seeing as generally this isn't the thing to do, surely we should be made to feel better about ourselves when getting into these elevators, these exaggerated metallic tubs? Perhaps by giving them reassuring personalities, such as the personality of Morgan Freeman, we might feel a whole lot more trusting towards these height-scaling entities.
"Hello there. I'm going to take you safely to your destination," says the voice of Morgan Freeman.
"That's good."
"Yes. Yes it is."
How much better would that be? I'd feel better about the whole thing anyway.
The thing is though, Morgan Freeman's personality don't come cheap. After all, he's a very in-demand actor. Whenever a film needs an omniscient voice-over, it's fucking Morgan Freeman isn't it.
Some of the more budget elevators, such as the ones for a shopping-centre car park in Skegness, could probably only afford the personality of somebody like this prize tosser:
So yeah fucking Joe Swash would be all like "Cor blimey, I'm gonna try and take you up to the third floor but I'll probably balls it up like the cheeky chappy I am and accidentally send you plummeting to your death or summink! Corrrr!!"
And yeah, that'd just make things worse I suppose. But then again, why should we trust them anyway? The way they sometimes take a little bit too long to open their doors, the fact that their maximum weight limit is merely an approximate, and the way the just sit there waiting for you.....
Next time I'm gonna take the fuckin' stairs
Monday, 8 February 2010
What's In A Name? Ugg Boots: Awful By Name, Awful By Nature
A terrible blight has afflicted our society. It has seeped into the fabric of our community so quickly and with such force that many of us do not even recognise it as the terrible disease that it really is. It goes by the name of 'Ugg Boots'. Yes, indeed, you know of what I speak. That most awful of items, the fashionable clothing accessory, but one that is far more terrible than any preceeding it. The reason for this, is this......
They look shit. They look fucking stupid.
I'm sure many of you will disagree with me, because a great number of you may be unfortunate enough to own a pair. But consider this for just one moment, they look fucking awful. No matter how elegant, graceful or beautiful the owner, Ugg Boots will have no trouble in making your calfs and ankles look like those of a swollen hippopotamus with no friends. 'Tis but the truth.
And the worst thing about it all is, they make no attempt at hiding their ugliness. You would have thought such a sinister and cruel boot would attempt to disguise its evil with an attractive name, as the Venus Fly Trap tempts its victims with a sweet smell, but it doesn't even do this. It has that little respect for you. Instead it forces itself into your life in all its abhorrent, fat and garish anti-glory under the clumsy banner of 'Ugg', a word which connotates nought but awfulness.
Now, I'm not saying they're not comfortable or warm. No, no, I'm sure they are. I'm sure their frequent appearance of late is due to the low temperatures, and the harsh elements. But answer me this, would you rather have slightly cold feet or look like a fucking tosser?
Ugg Boots are a scam, comparable to pyramid schemes, designed only to rid you of your hard-earned (or stolen) money and make your feet look swollen in the process. The next time you see an Ugg Boot I want you to remember what I've said. Free yourself from their grasping terror.
Yours sincerely,
The Creator of the Ugg Boot
They look shit. They look fucking stupid.
I'm sure many of you will disagree with me, because a great number of you may be unfortunate enough to own a pair. But consider this for just one moment, they look fucking awful. No matter how elegant, graceful or beautiful the owner, Ugg Boots will have no trouble in making your calfs and ankles look like those of a swollen hippopotamus with no friends. 'Tis but the truth.
And the worst thing about it all is, they make no attempt at hiding their ugliness. You would have thought such a sinister and cruel boot would attempt to disguise its evil with an attractive name, as the Venus Fly Trap tempts its victims with a sweet smell, but it doesn't even do this. It has that little respect for you. Instead it forces itself into your life in all its abhorrent, fat and garish anti-glory under the clumsy banner of 'Ugg', a word which connotates nought but awfulness.
Now, I'm not saying they're not comfortable or warm. No, no, I'm sure they are. I'm sure their frequent appearance of late is due to the low temperatures, and the harsh elements. But answer me this, would you rather have slightly cold feet or look like a fucking tosser?
Ugg Boots are a scam, comparable to pyramid schemes, designed only to rid you of your hard-earned (or stolen) money and make your feet look swollen in the process. The next time you see an Ugg Boot I want you to remember what I've said. Free yourself from their grasping terror.
Yours sincerely,
The Creator of the Ugg Boot
Sunday, 7 February 2010
JLS: The Truth Uncovered...
Has anybody else noticed that there's something not quite right about JLS? Well, there's a reason for that. They're imposters. Imposters of what you say, imposters of talented people? Indeed, but not only that, they are also imposters of homo-sapiens. What I'm saying is, they're not actually human beings. As if it wasn't obvious enough, due to their frankly quite horrifying appearances and suspicious back-flips, I saw them the other day come out of their flying saucer, having only just applied their human disguises.
"Well the human race sure are a bunch of suckers," says the little one, whilst backflipping.
"I concur. We're clearly only close approximations of normal human beings, I mean look at my fucking eyes," says the goggle-eyed one.
"Yeah mate you really should have put a bit more effort into your costume," suggest the one who looks like he's melting.
"Leave it out, besides if I can fool Cheryl Cole I can fool anyone."
"I wouldn't go that far, she's thick as fucking shit."
"Amen to that." they all say, and high-five each other.
Basically, I've reported them to the MI5 and they said they'd take care of it, so I wouldn't worry too much about it, but I just thought I should let ya'll know the truth. I don't think they're even planning of taking over the world or anything like that, I think they're just doing it for a bit of a laugh. Fair enough really, everyone likes a laugh don't they? Even hideous apparitions from outer space, apparently.
Watch it again? Why would I want to watch it again, Teletubbies?
If there's one thing that the Teletubbies taught me, it's that watching a video clip which was shit in the first place AGAIN, immediately after the first screening, isn't much fun. Admittedly the entire program was a load of fucking bollocks, but this was the part of the onslaught that perplexed me the most. And it baffled me a bit as well, I don't mind saying. If you're unsure what part of the show I'm banging on about, here is a reconstruction:
"Oh, fucking hell, my television stomach is showing a video clip."
"What seriously?"
"Yeah, look."
(They look)
"Looks like a video of some school kids going through a car-wash for busses or something like that."
"Oh right."
"I wonder why?"
"Not sure."
(They watch it)
"Oh, oh it's finished."
(There is a silence)
"Shall we watch it again?"
".....Yeah alright."
What a load of shit! If these people think that this is the way to have a good time, they have led very sheltered lives indeed. I wonder what would happen if I introduced them to alcohol or something.
"Alright guys? Po, fuck off for a minute, I'm talking to the grown-ups."
(Po fucks off)
"Now guys I couldn't help but observe that you keep on watching the same stomach-based video clip twice in a row. With barely even a few seconds interval, at that."
"Yes."
"Well, what's that all about?"
"Urm. Not sure to be honest. Hadn't really thought about it."
"Well I'm telling you, you're wasting your time. If you wanted to watch something why wouldn't you go to the cinema and see a good film involving Brad Pitt or somebody instead of hanging around waiting for one of your grotesque stomachs to broadcast a mundane piece of shit which could probably pass for weird art in the Tate Modern?"
(There is a hubbub of discussion)
"Well, anyway, never mind that for now. I got you guys a present coz I felt so fucking sorry for you. It's called Gin."
From this point on, the Teletubbies get roaringly pissed on the hellish clear liquid that is Gin, and they have a right fucking good time.
"I tell you what Tinky-Winky, mate, I fucking love you mate."
"Dipsy, you're such a legend, you are. Cor fucking hell, La-La's so fit."
"Mate she's well out of your league!"
"I don't even care, she's so fucking hot, I may as well have a go."
And thus, Tinky-Winky watches Dipsy and La-La make out horrifically, and he stays at the iPod and makes a temporary playlist or something. Po can fuck right off.
"Oh, fucking hell, my television stomach is showing a video clip."
"What seriously?"
"Yeah, look."
(They look)
"Looks like a video of some school kids going through a car-wash for busses or something like that."
"Oh right."
"I wonder why?"
"Not sure."
(They watch it)
"Oh, oh it's finished."
(There is a silence)
"Shall we watch it again?"
".....Yeah alright."
What a load of shit! If these people think that this is the way to have a good time, they have led very sheltered lives indeed. I wonder what would happen if I introduced them to alcohol or something.
"Alright guys? Po, fuck off for a minute, I'm talking to the grown-ups."
(Po fucks off)
"Now guys I couldn't help but observe that you keep on watching the same stomach-based video clip twice in a row. With barely even a few seconds interval, at that."
"Yes."
"Well, what's that all about?"
"Urm. Not sure to be honest. Hadn't really thought about it."
"Well I'm telling you, you're wasting your time. If you wanted to watch something why wouldn't you go to the cinema and see a good film involving Brad Pitt or somebody instead of hanging around waiting for one of your grotesque stomachs to broadcast a mundane piece of shit which could probably pass for weird art in the Tate Modern?"
(There is a hubbub of discussion)
"Well, anyway, never mind that for now. I got you guys a present coz I felt so fucking sorry for you. It's called Gin."
From this point on, the Teletubbies get roaringly pissed on the hellish clear liquid that is Gin, and they have a right fucking good time.
"I tell you what Tinky-Winky, mate, I fucking love you mate."
"Dipsy, you're such a legend, you are. Cor fucking hell, La-La's so fit."
"Mate she's well out of your league!"
"I don't even care, she's so fucking hot, I may as well have a go."
And thus, Tinky-Winky watches Dipsy and La-La make out horrifically, and he stays at the iPod and makes a temporary playlist or something. Po can fuck right off.
Donald Duck the Loose Cannon
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-eQjMqhbys
Most Disney characters are quite cutesy and generally faff around innocently and get into all sorts of comical japes, but I've personally found that the one they call Donald Duck seems to have a sinister edge to his personality. Whereas Goofy might just sort of trip over a log or some shit and make everybody laugh (which if you think of it is a form of bullying) Donald just loses his temper at the slightest thing going wrong. Every single Donald Duck cartoon seems to involve him losing his rag one way or another, shouting his head off at his nephews and shit. It's quite uncomfortable to watch. I dread to think how he treats Daisy behind closed doors.
"Dinner's ready Donald," she calls into the darkened lounge, only to receive no reply from the beer-guzzling Donald. She hesitates to call again but knows it'll only be worse in the long run if she doesn't. "I said dinner's ready Donald."
"I FUCKING HEARD YOU!" he screams, and throws the beer bottle at the television. Once again his terrible anger has taken hold of him.
"I'm going out," he says, taking his leather jacket from the coat rack.
"Where are you going?"
Again there is no reply as he slams the door, and he gets into his car blind drunk. After several hours of chaotic driving, at one point nearly running over that fat cunt Pete who always just makes a dick out of himself anyway, he is pulled over by the Disney police, who are some pigs or something like that.
"What the fuck did I do wrong?" Donald howls, smashing the steering wheel with his feathery fists.
"You were doing about 70 in a 30 zone, Mr. Duck."
"Did you just call me Mr. Fuck???!?!?"
"....No, I said Mr. Duck."
"I swear to fucking god you called me Mr. Fuck."
"Well I didn't."
"Well you did."
Consequently Donald is banned from driving and made to attend anger management classes.
"So Donald, what is it that makes you angry?"
"Your fucking shit face for fuck's sake."
"Now you see Donald you've lost your temper again. Now breath like I showed you and calm down."
Donald gradually calms down but still thinks the counsellor has a shit face.
"Now, I'm going to show you some pictures and you tell me what makes you angriest."
The counsellor shows Donald a picture of his nephews chucking a snowball and he literally flips out immediately and smashes all the windows in the room.
"I don't think we're making much progress here."
And so, I regret to inform you, Donald is locked away in a padded cell for the rest of his years. This means that Disney need to get another duck character post-haste so as to have a male equivalent to Daisy, because Disney is a male-chauvinistic institution and they can't have a female character just on her own. So, they nick Daffy off of Warner Brothers.
"Suffering suckertash." he says as he's introduced to Daisy.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Suffering suckertash, I said." he repeats. Their partnership is an unhappy one.
Most Disney characters are quite cutesy and generally faff around innocently and get into all sorts of comical japes, but I've personally found that the one they call Donald Duck seems to have a sinister edge to his personality. Whereas Goofy might just sort of trip over a log or some shit and make everybody laugh (which if you think of it is a form of bullying) Donald just loses his temper at the slightest thing going wrong. Every single Donald Duck cartoon seems to involve him losing his rag one way or another, shouting his head off at his nephews and shit. It's quite uncomfortable to watch. I dread to think how he treats Daisy behind closed doors.
"Dinner's ready Donald," she calls into the darkened lounge, only to receive no reply from the beer-guzzling Donald. She hesitates to call again but knows it'll only be worse in the long run if she doesn't. "I said dinner's ready Donald."
"I FUCKING HEARD YOU!" he screams, and throws the beer bottle at the television. Once again his terrible anger has taken hold of him.
"I'm going out," he says, taking his leather jacket from the coat rack.
"Where are you going?"
Again there is no reply as he slams the door, and he gets into his car blind drunk. After several hours of chaotic driving, at one point nearly running over that fat cunt Pete who always just makes a dick out of himself anyway, he is pulled over by the Disney police, who are some pigs or something like that.
"What the fuck did I do wrong?" Donald howls, smashing the steering wheel with his feathery fists.
"You were doing about 70 in a 30 zone, Mr. Duck."
"Did you just call me Mr. Fuck???!?!?"
"....No, I said Mr. Duck."
"I swear to fucking god you called me Mr. Fuck."
"Well I didn't."
"Well you did."
Consequently Donald is banned from driving and made to attend anger management classes.
"So Donald, what is it that makes you angry?"
"Your fucking shit face for fuck's sake."
"Now you see Donald you've lost your temper again. Now breath like I showed you and calm down."
Donald gradually calms down but still thinks the counsellor has a shit face.
"Now, I'm going to show you some pictures and you tell me what makes you angriest."
The counsellor shows Donald a picture of his nephews chucking a snowball and he literally flips out immediately and smashes all the windows in the room.
"I don't think we're making much progress here."
And so, I regret to inform you, Donald is locked away in a padded cell for the rest of his years. This means that Disney need to get another duck character post-haste so as to have a male equivalent to Daisy, because Disney is a male-chauvinistic institution and they can't have a female character just on her own. So, they nick Daffy off of Warner Brothers.
"Suffering suckertash." he says as he's introduced to Daisy.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Suffering suckertash, I said." he repeats. Their partnership is an unhappy one.
Eeyore's Clinical Depression
Has the thought never occurred to anybody else that Eeyore might actually have serious clinical depression, and people should look out for him a bit more? I mean it's all well and good just putting his low moods down to a loveably melancholic demeanor, but maybe when he says he's upset he actually really feels like dying? I don't get why Owl or fucking Rabbit don't take him out to town and show him a good time, try and cheer the fucker up a bit. They ought to because they won't like it if they come into his house one time and he's swinging from the fucking rafters. Come on animals of 100 Acre Wood, do the right thing. Look out for the guy.
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