Sunday, 15 September 2013

Succession Of Witches

"Can only say his own name and thinks his dad is Princess Leia"

Yes, Comrades

So political correctness is a thing. It annoys me so much it makes my teeth hurt. You know, like Radio 1 makes my teeth hurt. You know those songs that are so bad they make your teeth hurt? Right then. It's all fine and good to not disclude little Tommy from his spelunking class strictly because he's in a wheelchair, can only say his own name and thinks his dad is Princess Leia (based (loosely) on a true story), but I take umbrage with people who throw the term around like a hot bag of herpes. You only have to say a word that could be, if you do lots of verbal acrobatics, even vaguely related to a racist or derogatory term before some shithead who thinks liberalism will get him his hole starts on you. I believe the majority of these people start on you purely to look like the fantastic neo-hippies they think they are and don't actually understand what they're having a go at you for. I believe PC has evolved to such an extent that people now just use it solely to get what they want and aren't actually offended in the least, and if they are they don't even fucking know why - they just think they should be, and I can prove it. This is a true story, this is. You must understand that in the context of the shit I talk, this story is 100% true and not fabricated in the least.

Ok. Many moons ago, say...8 years ago, I knew a boy by the name of Blair. He liked Japanese cartoons, ate like Jammie Dodgers were going out of fashion and we once caught him sitting in his dad's car, shades on, with the window rolled down and his arm hanging out the window as he listened to Final Fantasy rock music, bopping his head and most likely thinking "I can't wait to be the first person to die by drowning in vagina". So, we had plenty of things to ridicule this boy for, is my point. But being the kind-hearted souls we were, we didn't. One day though, I called him the Blair Witch. This was his response: "No! Don't call me that, because that is very offensive to people called Blair. How dare you!" So...apparently the Blair tribe, in some time of yore, had been cast out as witches, stoned with ducks (if you're of the Monty Python persuasion) and from then on anyone with the name was still referred to as a witch, and they're still sensitive about the whole issue, every time one of the Blair tribe during one of their conference calls says the word 'witch' there's a lull in the conversation and they have to take a few minutes to compose themselves. Very see what I'm saying? How could it possibly be 'offensive'? This guy had been watching too much Judge Judy or something, I don't know, but he'd adopted the PC card and wasn't even using it right. He's since grown up to become quite a successful player in his basketball team of choice (he used to call it 'B-ball' which he outright admitted he stole from Grand Theft Auto) so I guess the Blairs have finally overcome their oppression and public casting out as witches. I hope I've made my point. Just in case, here it is in plain language: People are fucking soft-as-shite cowards and idiots.

So you lot have been telling me your reviews about me as a person lately, I'm so grateful. I'm just going to share some with you. Here's the first: "I love your blog, but so typical of you to ridicule Jammie Dodgers and fat people without insulting people from the Middle East. You're happy to have a go at Jammie Dodgers, but I doubt we shall be seeing you having a go at any Muslim-related snacks in the near future, like those little mini poppadom things you can get from Tesco's. Yours, Norris McWhirter."
And let's have another: "Yeah he likes catgirls dressed in hoodies and that, doesn't he?"
Annnd another: "I hope fucking Chrohn's Disease kills him."
Oh, go on then, one more. "A shit-haired cunt who resides at the very apex of all that is absolute patience-testing wank. Seriously, when there is the blogger equivalent of the Nuremberg Trials, this bastard is going to be hung from the highest fucking lamp post, pelted with wasps' nests and dog turds and eventually blasted with a flamethrower. Fucking Hell, I can't put into words (???) how much I detest this utter fucking cunt. Yours, Norris McWhirter"

Interesting reviews, those. What's more interesting about those reviews, is that of those four reviews, only three of them were made up by me.

In a bit.


The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. It's the last one too so you can just take the Super Soaker away from your head now, you have so much to live for after all.

Wednesday 7th January 2009
It's sea spray night, and I'm certainly getting emotional vibes. I've had my last swim, my last dinner, my last game of Soul Calibur with Mark and my last pointless argument. My bag took ages to pack and it weighs more than Paul Weller's paycheck. We got our family shots on disc too - and they definitely turned out great. I listened to Get Away all the way through at 2am (30 mins ago) as I took my last look at the Mendez garden. It's all very dramatic and all, but I look forward to coming back here equipped with my 'materials' for life. All is said and done; it's time to go home and get drunk again.
"Carry me home, you old sea spray"

Saturday, 7 September 2013

The Black Angel's Death Song

"Teenage emotional girls who aspire to one day be old enough to give One Direction a blowjob each"

Yes, Comrades

A trip to Comicon happened today. I'm completely joking, it didn't happen for reasons I'm too polite to bore you with. But I had promised myself I'd write about it here as that was a sufficient time gap from my last post. So, I seem to have done myself a bit of a disservice by not dragging my sorry arse to the convention filled with teenage emotional girls who aspire to one day be old enough to give One Direction a blowjob each; fat, spot-popping, workshy louts who masturbate over animated ponies and those strange men who watch too many Harold Lloyd films according to their fashion sense, sound like they're impersonating Snagglepuss when they talk and think "It's time I went a-wooing!" and go to Comicon (I'm sure I'm supposed to be saying Comic Con, but hey, fuck the police). Regardless, here's some drivel from yours truly to bridge the gap until the next one.

How many of you, dear droogs, tried to write a song when you were about 14, 15? If so, may I hazard a guess that it went along the lines of this: "There's a man, he's a lonely man. Take a look at him. He looks a bit like me!"? I bet it fucking did, didn't it? You just wanted to play it and for some well-informed peer of the opposite gender to go "My God, you're deep. My God, you are brilliant, aren't you? And that's about you, is it?" "Yeah, it is, yeah" I love all that. Then as you got older, you maybe had a go at it again, didn't you? You'd heard some Ramones and thought you were the fucking bollocks, so your song evolved into something like this: "The world's trying to take a piece of me! Ey, you think I’m going down and I’m coming back! I’m against the ropes! They tried to drag me down, they put me in this emotional prison! The man's on my back! They tried to take a piece of me!" Am I right? Of course the best part is you'd just love to go back in time and meet your little gobshite self and say "Who? Who's bringing you down? Who's trying to take a piece of you?" "Well, you know, parents and that, don't they, sometimes? The teachers"

On that subject, I have to share something fucking brilliant with you. I still remember a poem from my very early big school days. We all had to write a poem for English and to be fair, they were all pretty shite. But we mercilessly took the piss out of this lad, I won't say his name (no it wasn't fucking me!) because his was just...oh God, I still remember it after all these years. I'm convinced he just went to a thesaurus and stuck in some words he'd found that were synonymous with "brood". Anyway, here's how it went:

'The reason why,
The reason why,
The reason why
I had to die
Did I bleed
The blood of greed?
What was my destiny?'

We read this and we. Were. Laughing. And I swear, for about a year all we'd do around this lad was stroke our chin, looking skyward, scratching our head and saying "What was my destiny?" Fucking brilliant.

Hey, talking that shite actually took up more space than I thought it would. Nice one. Let me share this with you as well. It's a comment from a YouTube video which bloody floored me when I saw it. I can't censor one of the pics because it's a bit, you know, imperative to the humour. In this entry's Nameless But Never Shameless...

Thought I'd share some tunes with you too, found some interesting ones of late that you might not have heard. I've no plans to make a habit of this.

If you like My Bloody Valentine or any other shoegaze, Asobi Seksu (they're American - it's Japanese for 'playful sex') are masters of their craft.

The best album cover ever, is it not? Quickspace make repetitive stoner rock not unlike Pavement or Mogwai. They're not as brave as Pavement or as inventive as Mogwai (who I hate actually) but they're pretty fucking good. I'm sure that's a theremin I hear in there too, what more do you want?

Bubble Puppy were a 1969 one-kinda-hit-wonder, and this is that kinda-hit. It's very bluesy and catchy, that main riff is total tits as Eric Cartman might say.

In a bit.

The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. Even if I'd written that poem above, which I most definitely did not, it couldn't equate to this level of shit.

Tuesday 6th January 2009

It is 3:25am. I'm hardly tired. There's a very realistic fake spider by my hand which cost me $5. A photo of me with a Koala chum also came into my possession. I met snakes, echidnas, kangaroos, emus, and other dodgy critters today also. Then straight home to whack away at Mark's curiously quiet drumkit for his Wii. More fun than it sounds. Dad wants Judy so much but of course won't admit it. Last night at Mark's, ever. That hits home I have to say. He's burning a copy of Spore for himself tomorrow. I imagine for the first time he'll be up before me, that's a bit strange too. My thongs have cut up my tootsie wootsies. I wasn't tired today.
"I won't forget a single day, believe me" 

Monday, 2 September 2013

Let Forever Be

"My life is equatable to a fucking bit of bad weather?"

Yes, Comrades

Well, er, now, where does one begin? From stepping off that jetway up until the present moment, my greatest contribution to society has been an Imdb list titled "Ladies I'd Get Jiggy With Whilst Listening To Will Smith - Gettin' Jiggy With It" which seemed to find its audience whilst I was galavanting overseas. People even liked it through Facebook - people publically admitted to liking something I have come up with. When my ego finally sat its fat arse down and shut its fat hole, I realised I might need to resume the asinine, banal, fatuous, other words for soulless and empty, blog of mine. It would give me some time away from writing my medical paper on why autistic people get so wet for Sonic the Hedgehog and from babysitting a braindead Aussie who Yabby Bassey so kindly landed me with whom I now can't get fucking rid of.

One part of my brain is saying "You got nothing, you got nothing" over and over whilst another is playing Joe Esposito to me right now. So I think I'll start with a very basic rant. What's the deal, with charcoal?! I mean, why is it black?!?! Oh no wait that's from my unfinished stand-up comedy routine. Right, why is it, gaylords all over the internet, whenever they're quoting Lady Gaga, Demi Lovato, Britney Spears or another of those awful people, they see some advantage to quoting the entire line. Let me show you what I mean, I'll just nip onto a website that's notorious for these idiots..."Because I played the fool for you" Right, why did they include the word 'because'? I don't see what that adds to the fucking lyric. Well, if I ever return to that Facebook thing, I'm going to go the whole hog and say things like "Tell me, tell me, tell me lies. Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies, tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies" or "Hm, my lord (hallelujah), my, my, my lord (hare krishna), my sweet lord (hare krishna), my sweet lord (krishna krishna)" I mean, really, why the fuck not? These arsetards seem to think the word "Because" or the word "And" really adds something to it, man!

I did some evaluation on my life today. I thought, "What do I really mean to this world?" So I thought naturally the first thing I would do is see if anything ever happened on the day I was born in history. So let's see...Dolly Parton's 9 To 5 tops the charts; Robert Frost dies...oh, that...famous...person and last but certainly not fucking least: "Dense fog brings road, rail and air transport in many parts of England and Wales to a virtual standstill." Seriously? THIS is what qualified for news the same date I was born? My life is equatable to a fucking bit of bad weather? That's as ridiculous as comparing Clint Eastwood to anal sex. Although, if I had to draw a comparison will make your day, one will make your whole year.

Ok, let's try something else, who shares my birthday? "Endi E. Poskovic - Artist and printmaker whose influences come from a variety of sources, including Japanese woodblock carvings." I'm convinced that's someone who's just shoved himself onto this website. It's like my Papa used to say, "Dread! Get over here with those matches, this cross isn't going to burn itself!" Wait, what? I didn't say anything. "Bob Holly - Became known by his ring name, Bob "Hardcore" Holly; fearless wrestler who won the WWF Hardcore Championship six times." Oh, hey, I share a birthday with Big Hardy Holly! Aw well that settles it, I'm a privileged man after all! I'm lying who the fuck are you? Who decides a wrestler is fearless anyway, where's that committee?

Must go, there's a noose in my room just screaming for a loser.

In a bit.

I'll resume and finish the Australia journal starting next entry.