Thursday, 27 December 2018

A Pulp Fiction synonymphony.

Hebrew prophet, 1/4:sweet seventeen.

The pavement of the morally correct male homosapien is beleaguered on both the left and right of the hemisphere by the prejudice of the inward looking, and the totalitarianism of malevolent male homosapiens.

Made holy; is said homosapien (female or male in this day and age thank you very much), who in the identification of non-profit organisations and helpful cooperation, ushers the masculinity challenged via the ravine of murkiness, for he is candidly his/her siblings' chaperone, and the discoverer of disorientated adolescents.

And one might wallop said persons bearing gargantuan retribution and incandescent rage, those who endeavour to intoxinate and obliterate my fellow male siblings. And you, the reader, will inevitably assimilate that my denomination is the seigneur, when I deposit my retributive justice atop thee.

Monday, 12 November 2018

Internet Dating. A POF Story....

Day 1 - Is this thing even working?

Day 2 - anyone there or have I woken up in 28 Days Later?

Day 3 - Is "Hey there :)" the absolute pinnacle of human vocabulary these days?

Day 4 - Really loving the "Who viewed you" section, here I can see everyone I messaged viewed my profile and thought "nah!"....this site is great for my self-esteem.

Day 6 - I have too many conversations going on at once, struggling to remember who told me what....was it Julie who has 4 kids off 4 dads or was that Bianca?

Day 7 - It's really stressful trying to figure out which of these 27 women (who I'll probably never meet) I'm going to marry first, this is how Ryan Gosling must feel.

Day 8 - All conversations have ground to a halt.

Day 9 - Deletes POF for the 198th (approximately) time. What a monumental waste of my time that was, I could have actually WATCHED the crap TV I had on in the background whilst I scoured the human catalogue.

Day 10 - I'm so glad I came off POF, I feel rejuvenated, revitalised, liberated even!!! Life is good again, it's like a moment of clarity.....who needs women anyway?!

Day 11 (PM) - I'm going to be single forever, but come on, you can do this.....maybe dying alone won't be the chore they make it out to be?

Day 11 (Drunk, nearly midnight) - Signs up for POF for the 199th (approximately) time.

Day 12 (1am) - Realise I've dated, spoken with or been blocked by everyone aged between 18-75 of every ethnicity, size group and religious faith within a 25,000 mile radius.

Day 13 - Receive message from POF creator and master of misery "Marcus", congratulating me on becoming POF's most prolific and longest serving user.

Day 14 - Deletes POF for the 200th (approximately) time and jets off to assisted suicide clinic in Switzerland.

Sunday, 19 February 2017

Am I still ill?

Having a diagnosed 'mental illness' is a just get out of jail free card when acting like a complete arsehole. You can't accuse someone with bipolar of being a moody sod and ask them to cheer the fuck up, well you can, if you want to die a horrible death.

The thing is, people with a mental illness can't always be an arse simply because of their illness, can they? I mean, I'm an arse on a daily basis and always called to account for it, I'm known as "Nasty Nick" in my place of work because I'm opinionated, if only in a tongue in cheek fashion. But what if I had bipolar, would people call me 'nasty' to my face then? Probably not, they'd be too fucking scared for a start, either because I'd call them politically incorrect and ignorant to the effects of mental illness and take them to HR, or that I'd pummel them to within an inch of their life with the nearest blunt object I could lay my "crazy" hands on.

How do you know someone with tourettes isn't just blurting out "WANKER!" in your face just because they actually DO think you're a wanker? Should it even be viewed as a mental illness at all, maybe a prick is simply a prick, whatever the excuse.

I was trying to explain to my children the other day about the universe and how it's still expanding. I then asked them what might be outside the universe, my children looked at me for answers and the best I could muster up was "I dunno, I'll have to Google it" (I literally have no wisdom to offer my children, Google might aswell bring them up for me, if only it could tie shoelaces I'd be surplus to paternal requirements). Anyway, upon wearily gazing at my soporific brain replacement machine to find a pearl of said wisdom for my children to feast their curious minds on because daddy's brain doesn't function anymore, I found out that anything beyond the universe is still in fact, the universe, there's no such thing as "nothing". Even nothing is something and every something is part of the universe. I'm not sure what this has to do with the mentally ill being dickwads, it was supposed to be the perfect analogy, but it has become an exercise in advertising why you shouldn't drink too excessively in your 20's. I guess what I might have been trying to say is that if you act like an arse, you are an arse, no matter what your GP scribbles on your sick note.

There should be a manual to advise the mentally healthy on how to distinguish between "normal" behaviour and mentally ill behaviour, just so we know when we can legitimately punch them in the face without fear of a reprimandal guilt trip. You could call it "an idiots guide to the mentally ill", although the difference between those two subjects is nuance, maybe the mentally ill could have an "idiots guide on how to deal with idiots". It's all about equality these days, you can't be too careful. I mean, it's a well known fact that mentally handicapped people are stronger than people who aren't, what if you get mugged by one of them, are you allowed to defend yourself or retaliate? I know that might sound a tad controversial but it's the same premise. I saw a video on the news recently that had gone viral where an Australian man was criticised for punching a kangaroo in the face after said pouched thug squared up to him like a Newport pisshead. Was the kangaroo chastised and castigated by his own upon his return home for his "gone viral" misdemeanor, probably not....mainly because they don't have the ability to judge each other and make each other feel bad for sticking up for themselves.

Pretty soon we're going to be overrun by the mentally ill and any animal that can enter into fisticuffs. Recently, a cat stopped me in my tracks on the pavement and turned onto his back, seemingly bidding for a tickled tummy. When I kindly obliged  it turned on me and nearly ripped my hand off. The wheels are in motion people, we need to start sticking up for ourselves, the resurrection of evil has begun and it's not ISIS or thethe Naz this time, it's the underdogs, mongs.....and cats.

I seemed to digress to a weird place there. Whilst I'm still vaguely skirting on the subject of equality gone mad, I thought I'd pick on some other people.

Female football commentators:

I'm sorry, but no. Call me old fashioned, stuck in my ways, chauvinistic, call me a dick for all I care, but listening to a women commentate makes me unable to take the game seriously. They sound like they're impersonating their male counterparts, it's about as natural as a finger up the arse. I keep expecting her to ask someone to explain the offside rule or mention how fit the United goalie is. There's women's football now, go and commentate on that, you've only got a job on MOTD to satisfy the suffragettes that never actually asked for a female commentator quota. Go on, piss're invading the the last remaining corner of the long lost "man's world". I'm so bitter I'm actually sweating. Why don't we have animals commentating too, I always thought it was unfair that there weren't any giraffe commentators. #giraffeshaverightstoo

Special mentions for those who get too much unnecessary praise in my humble opinion:

Paralympians - Who actually genuinely cares?

Kids who lose and still get a medal - please stop it.

Working mums - Dad's work too, stop going on about it like you're a superhero, you had the option of 'stay at home mum', you didn't like that and now you're moaning that you have to work instead of being home with your little cherubs.

Child artists - You all suck. Adults only tell you your drawings are good to spare your feelings and encourage you. Don't get used to it though, in a few years you'll have teachers telling you you're not good enough even though you're trying just as hard as you were when you were wrapped up in cotton wool aged 3 and a half, which is all very confusing.

Anyway, back to my original point. Just so you know I'm not completely out of touch and dead inside, I know mental illness is a serious subject. I actually think I suffer with my mental state to a degree....I get very down, outright depressed sometimes and have trouble controlling my emotions in certain circumstances, but I know when it's happening and I know when I'm wrong. I also have this annoying tendency to apologise when I've said something I shouldn't have, shame on me! Maybe some people don't know when they're being selfish, or aggressive, or moody. Maybe there's no such thing as mental illness?

There are about 3 million different species of frog out there (I've done no research on that figure, but there are alot), most of them look pretty much the same, they just differ enough for scientists to justify their jobs and grants and come up with a new one. Maybe they should start doing that with humans, maybe there are just lots of different types. I'm obviously the type that thinks it's always right with delusions of grandeur. I think we'll call my one 'Dickheadus Maximus'.

You don't need to look too far to discover a new species either, a reliable place to explore is prolific arsehole finder within the "comedy genre" of the alternative world of channel 4, namely The Undatables. It should be called "The Un-how to be a dick and get away with it-ables". Viewers will laugh and cry as these "poor souls" get to grips with trying to find anyone that has given up on life enough to take them on. Why haven't I been on it yet?

If you want to get away with murder or any odius despicable preparation for being grilled in the dock, just copy the behaviours of these people and you'll get away with it on the basis of diminished responsibility because you're a lost cause and you were merely following your demonic instincts.

There seems to be a "manual" out there to get away with anything, you just need to be diagnosed with an illness first in order to join the club. I'm off to make an application, I mean "appointment" my local arsehole license dealer, sorry, I mean the GP. See you on the other side you mentally healthy suckers, I'm onto a winner!

Saturday, 26 September 2015

Television doesn't get more pointless than this....

At the end of their tether and on the brink of financial meltdown, with their pantry about to burst......revealing a lardy version of Kelly LeBrock in a shell suit, eating a flaky Greggs pasty, they call upon their stringent saviour, Greg "stating the obvious doesn't get easier than this" Wallace. In the process, they shamelessly allow themselves to be revealed to the nation as a family that can't think for themselves, it's basically the hidden premise of the whole programme.

We're supposed to be the dominant species, yet all the other animals we share this dying marble with happily chow down on what nature has to offer whilst the majority of us dominant creatures scoff on vast amounts of obesity inducing churned up healthy creature slop which has been mushed together to form cholesterol filled junk that seems to be stopping the flow of blood to the brain.

If you can save £37 a year on eating slightly cheaper jam, how much jam are you bloody eating? I don't think I've spent £37 on jam in my entire life, and I've been jam-active since the age of 0.....although I don't think I bought my first jar until I left home and did my first food shop at 18, scary uncertain jam times they were indeed. Why are they eating so much jam? I like jam, I buy jam, decent jam.....but I don't base my entire existence on the stuff. Can you survive only on jam? Why doesn't someone do a "Supersize me" where someone eats only jam for a month until they resemble an ectoplasm'd Statue of Liberty circa Ghostbusters 2, the most awful sequel ever made. Or, "Man v's Jam", where the weeble-wobbling jam obsessed presenter travels the country, eating jam, talking about jam, using jam as lube. It's going to happen's a self-fulfilling prophecy of an infinite amount of galaxies, televisions, people and jam. We'll do the same with ham too, because it rhymes.....and people are suckers for poetry......let's milk the shit of this.


'Eat Well for Less' might aswell be called 'Stop buying so much food you greedy westernised rudderless conformist bastards'. I think I'd rather appear on Jeremy Kyle's daily ritual of mercilessly condescending to hapless chavtastic morons, without whom he'd probably be rubbing shoulders with at the Jobcentre. At least these chavs have the excuse of needing their appearance fee, or are they paid in Lambert & Butlers and Sports Direct vouchers? 

I mean, heaven forbid that these incapable plebs might actually use what's left of their ravaged shrunken gutter squatting minds to form some kind of logic to help them through life before calling in the 'Messiah of the food shop'. This is a primetime television programme, where families are told how to save money on their food this progress or has evolution finally come to a juddering halt?

I don't know about you, but I still expect to be entertained when I turn on my TV.....which is quite naive of me really, as it's a sensation I've not felt in at least 25 years, yet I keep going back in for more. What I do get, however, is several years closer to having a stroke every time I look in it's direction....I actually think it's worse for your health than having a deep-fried pork scratching sandwich....on toast.....with a doughnut filled crust. How many more times will I moan that there's "nothing on", before yet again, scouring back through 4000 channels gormlessly staring at the TV guide like an impoverished NSPCC poster child peering into an empty fridge, praying for a veritable feast to magically appear from the fathomless chilly void.

If you're a TV addict these days, it basically means you're addicted to watching utter dross. Why have we done it to ourselves? In the same way porn has desensitised us to promiscuous anal gapage, or how 24 hour news, "AKA 24/7 snuff movie carnage", has desensitised us to horrific moments caught on camera that once would have made our eyes bleed leading to insomnia and weekly visits to a psychiatrist, the average primetime guff has rendered us seemingly incapable of distinguishing an idiot from our very selves. 

Which all brings us full circle really. I shouldn't judge these people, the reason they're baring their desperate souls on for our entertainment is because they made the mistake of turning one on in the first place, the poor bastards never stood a chance. How about a programme called "Think more for more", where people are cajoled and encouraged to use that fabled 10% of brain activity that allegedly still knocks about in their numbskulls. 

I'm constantly told that I think too much, but when I think, I make better decisions, like buying the correct amount of relatively nutritious affordable food that I and my children need to survive. I know, I'm so rock and roll it hurts. It's a notion that some of you may have trouble comprehending, but trust me, you do have a brain, no matter what they say.

I've been tempted to sell my TV and just replace it with a massive pile of books, I know it would be life changing, but I can't do it. I have kids who are both already addicted to the bloody thing and I don't think they'd share my vision of life improvement. I suspect they'd actually disown me if they walked into a room with a book case where the monolith of entertainment used to stand.

So there we have it, I know it's ruined my life, but I still allow my children.....the absolute loves of my life, to stand in the way of the very same soul-destroying juggernaut of soporific glare that is the television. Guilt doesn't get any more painful than Greg never warned us, the cheekily grinning last standing fruit and veg selling alpha-male twunt.

Welcome to the next generation of Telly addicts.....Noel Edmunds will be turning in his grave, once he has one. Noel's coffin is the only box I want to see opened on that bloody show. I don't even have the energy to start on him today.....stay tuned my pedigree chums!
Another Original Blog meta name="robots" content="index, follow" />