Apparently “extremist groups” are recruiting youngsters with freebies, such as new, brand-name trainers. Yes, kid, free Nikes! Just ignore the fuses sticking out of the heels and the fact that they smell vaguely of dynamite. Oh, and here’s a free plane ticket to the US to go with them.
A woman’s place
Have you ever noticed how often woman go on about men leaving the loo seat up? Now hang on a minute. I want to pee way more often than I want to crap. So, frankly, having to lift the seat that you lot selfishly leave down all the time is really starting to piss me off. Lift the damn thing when you’re done, will you?
There’s also the oft-rehashed detective bit where a guy guesses his wife’s been shagging around when he comes home and finds the toilet seat up (see The Last Boy Scout for an example). Hang on, there, Mr Suspicious. Have you ever thought that maybe she’s just been scrubbing it clean? After all, that’s what she’s there for.
Mind, if you share that attitude, she probably is shagging around.
I got some crap in the mail yesterday. The official BNP candidate’s pamphlet. And what a right fat fucker he is as well. He looks like Santa with a scowl. And bigger sideburns. And probably a big fucking swastika tattooed on the back of his head.
The bumph briefly mentions stopping immigration, concentrates on zero tolerance towards drugs, keeping care homes for the elderly own (very “Driving Miss Daisy” I’m sure, with all the Nigres used to wait on tables), and an increase in police presence (with a right to club any darkie who dares to look at them, most likely)… but doesn’t actually state that he’s a racist bastard. Just the boring “A vote for the BNP is a vote for common sense”. They missed off the end bit: “if you’re a cunt”.
Annoyingly, I’m all for most of their policies. But I don’t like a party that also hates people on the grounds of their race or colour. I’m making a wild guess that the candidate’s not Jewish.
Actually, there’s an idea. Any Jews out there fancy turning up and running for membership of the BNP? See how many excuses they make to stop you? After all, based on the policies put forward in the leaflet I got there’s nothing that any good, honest Jewish person would disagree with so they must be a nice party. Common sense, really.
I have been splattered by the Scumdogs of the Universe. I got home in the early hours of Wednesday morning, soaked to the skin. My clothes, skin and hair coated in blood, mucus, baby vomit, space alien jizz, hydraulic fluid… And with a big smile on my face. Everyone must know about Alice Cooper‘s legendary live show. And many will be aware of Ozzy’s habit of spraying the crowd with water. OK, now imagine some kind of hybrid.
The songs are instantly forgettable. I won’t be rushing out to buy an album. However, the stage show is amazing. It must cost a fortune to set up, and the tickets were less than a tenner. I’ll need to dig out the old one from the last time they toured (13 years ago!) and see how the prices compare.
In last night’s show, we all got to see:
Some nameless guy getting beheaded and covering the audience in blood
Arnie having his chest ripped open and covering the audience in blood
Saddam Hussain having his chest sliced off with a hige sword and his head ripped off. Squirt, squirt
Paris Hilton, nailed to a table, her legs ripped off and being made to go down on herself as the now diembodied crotch was forced into her face. While she sprayed blood over the audience
Michael Jackson pleading that he was a nice guy before having his face ripped off. More blood and copious vomit from his baby’s mouth
Dubya having his cock ripped off, then his limbs removed, while… you guessed it
An insane looking woman apparently with Mad Cow Disease giving birth to a smoking fish (?!) before being ripped apart and etc.
Ronnie Reagan, reanimated at the Reaganator. Imaging Transformers’ Optimus Prime with Ronnie’s head. He has both his arms cut off (green hydraulic fluid everywhere) and then killed (blood)
A troll, beaten to death and then a huge sword shoved down its throat
Add to this the lead singer’s huge alien penis showering the crowd in alternating blue alien cum and bright red blood, plus a microphone stand with an eyeball squirting blood everywhere and the venue was a little bit of a mess by the end. As was everyone in it.
Anyone who’s seen Peter Jackon‘s original films (Bad Taste, Brain Dead(UK)/Dead Alive(US), Meet The Feebles) would love this. Actually, any sick fuck would love this. I know I did.
More blood and piss than a dead pope’s underwear. And you lot think I’m uncultured. Shame one you.
Another of those daft stories on the radio. Tesco recently trialled a scheme where they put “traffic lights” on their own-brand food products. The basic idea was that green indicated healthy foods with certain ingredients (fat, salt, sugar and so on) below a certain lever. Red, obviously, was the reverse. After the trial, they’ve decided to abandon it.
The reason cited? Customers were confused as to what amber meant.
Did they test this scheme in darkest Cornwall where the inhabitants all have extra fingers in place of brain cells? Green – one end of scale. Red – other end of scale. Orange… in the middle.
How bloody hard is that?!
I bought some of those new “Nobby’s Crisps” today – grilled steak flavour. They’re quite nice as well. Bizarrely, they have a little story on the back that tells you where the term “hat-trick” comes from. Which is nice. The Nobby’s Nuts I had the other night gave me details of how to plaster a wall.
The nuts are an obscure idea. Taking one of nature’s healthiest foods, then wrapping it in a fatty batter with a load of artificial flavours. Lovely.
One other thing I noticed on the crisp packet, though, was the fact that they’re “suitable” for vegitarians. Hang on – what’s the point? You could make them any old flavour, say they’re “steak” and sell them to veggies – they shouldn’t be able to tell the difference. It’s not like they have the “real thing” to compare against.
While I’m on a roll, if you’re a veggie answer me this – why bother with veggie sausages, bacon and so forth that’s made to look and taste like meat? I mean, you know it’s not meat, it doesn’t taste right so why not just take it for what it is and have it served up as mulch?
Now, I’m not having a go at veggies – people have very good reasons for their dietary choices – but it just seems like they’re trying to fool themselves in to thinking they’re eating meat so that they fit in. Is that a fair thing to say?
Ironically, I remember noticing a couple of years ago that virtually every meat-flavour crisp from a major manufacturer was veggie-friendly, while the pickled onion flavour wasn’t.
Here’s a bit of friendly advice. Ten quid on a pair of shoes seems like a bargain for about 6 months until they start to look like the Hulk’s post-metamorphosis.
Plastic shoes may be kinder to cows and stuff, but I’m splashing out on leather next time. And I don’t mean that in a pervy “glad I got the wipe-clean car seats” kind of a way. Unless I have nice company.
Very late with today’s post. Sorry about that. I only got home around half midnight from Manchester and I had to wash all the blood, oil, puke, piss, and alien semen off. More details likely on Thursday. Late night again tomorrow (home game) so I might not get the chance to blog when I get back.
It seems someone’s released another of those pointless surveys over the last 24 hours. This one is a list of what we call our work colleagues – pet names, if you like. They range through “babe”, “pet”, “mate”, “sweetheart” and so forth.
The brief walk round the streets that 5Live did resulted in some seriously negative responses to this. One Scots guy was absolutely ranting: “What’s happened to the English language? I’m not their ‘mate’ – I’m ‘sir’ to them. ‘Can I help you, sir?”
Some people shouldn’t rant about a language until they know what the words mean. Scots Guy – go and look up “colleague”. These are the people you work with, you daft sod. I’d not expect a single one of the people I work with to call me “sir”. If I did, I’d be diagnosed with some kind of Napoleon Syndrome and committed.
Another girl said that she called her friends by such names, but would never dream of using them to work colleagues. Which says a lot for her working environment. I actually get on with the people I work with. I would – and do – go for a frink with them. I’ve had social nights out with them. Maybe I’m lucky, but I’d class some of them as more than just people in an office – they’re mates. Maybe not up the scale with those I’ve know for many years, but they’re a good bunch. If I didn’t feel comfortable calling them “mate” or “fella” after a few weeks, I’d start to think I was working in the wrong place.
Admittedly, I did used to walk into the office where I last worked and say “Guten Tag, Damen!” which used to piss off the Polish workers for some reason.
So where does that leave us? We’re not allowed to call people by pleasantly-meant pet names for risk of insulting them. So fuck it, go the whole hog:
“Pass us the stapler, y’fucker”
“Oh, you’re here. What time are the other cunts arriving?”
“Hey – twat. Have you done that report yet?”
Is that OK for you, Scots Guy?
The BBC made a cockup on Sunday, at least in my book. The news headlines came on in the evening. Top story was Posh & Becks possibly considering legal action because the News of the World published some stuff by their ex-nanny. I’m assuming she said she’s bonked the Brainless Wonder, or something.
Oh, and second on the news, 15 people were killed in a bomb blast.
At what point did the decidedly non-private lives of two of the biggest attention-seeking morons on the face of the planet take precedence over a loss of innocent life?
Hmm. Sunday afternoon at the pre-broadcast news conference, I suppose.
Whoops. That was a typo. Actually, I’m more of a dancing dog, stood on a dancefloor nodding my head back and forth. If you’re lucky (or unlucky), you might get a bit of air guitar in there.
How do some people do it? I mean, look cool dancing. John Travolta was the archetype some years ago, yet anyone who does what he did just looks like some arse trying to be Travolta and failing miserably. Of course, these days he’d likely crack any glass dancefloors with the excess poundage he’s carrying.
Then you’ve got Michael Jackson’s moonwalking and groin-grabbing. It’s looking like the only shuffling he’ll be doing for the next 30 years will involve 5 knuckles. I’d not be surprised if he’s squealing when someone else grabs his nutsack either.
Which is the better? Watching a little kid gurgle and smile, or catching out an otherwise normal person sticking their tongue out and make daft faces at it? Such happened to me today. The poor lass didn’t realise I was watching her until she’d been gurning at the poor child for an age. She went a right shade of beetroot.
I don’t wish to be mean, but what is it about Halifax’ main Post Office? It seems to be like some kind of Munter Magnet. Aside from my good self, every time I go in the place it’s full of ghastly looking people. In fact, the only attractive ones I’ve ever seen in there are male.
Actually, I think that pretty much goes for most of Halifax town centre. What scares me most is that a vast proportion of the worst genetic freaks seem to have offspring. How can a bloke get that desparate? Or that drunk?
Remind me never to go out drinking in Halifax. Ever. Actually, I did once. The night ended watching some poor sod getting his head jumped on (literally – jumped on) by some psycho trendy freak who’d recently been kicked out of the army for being “mental”. I’ve not been back out there since.
I heard from Dean (ex-neighbour, now landlord of that property) today, and apparently the chavs next door have been given the heave-ho for non-payment of rent. One of the rooms is apparently in a right state, and they’ve made a crap job of fixing the bathroom door the police kicked in to get to the fugitive they were harbouring.
A huge change from the previous people. Dean turned up to give the house a tidy before re-renting and didn’t even have to open the packet of dusters – the place was spotless.
What’s worrying me, though, is he said “You’ve probably already noticed…” before he told me. Well, I hadn’t, because one of the scrotes was stood on the doorstep this morning when I left for work. I’ll be keeping a close eye on the place over the next couple of days to make sure they’re not sneaking in with spare keys.
First off – apologies to the many I know who read this page who aren’t as mad as the utter wankers I’m going on about here. As I’ve stated before I couldn’t care if you worshipped an invisble cloud man, aliens from Mars or the plop that comes out of George Bush’s crinkly arse. So long as you don’t try and force your views on me (or anyone else), I’m happy for you to enjoy your life choices.
This happened a while ago, but I’ve only just found some sites with details. Have a check of this statement from a UK cancer charity. Yes – they were forced to turn down a substantial sum of money because a bunch of fucking god-botherers were pissed off about where they were getting it from.
Basically it boils down to: “If you accept money from Jerry Springer The opera then we, as caring Christians, will picket your charity shops, harass staff at your cancer care centres and upset seriously ill patients. Because we care about Jesus and we love you.” The hypocritial, fucking cunts. Every fucking one of them.
Part of me hopes there is a heaven, purely so St Peter can stand there and tell them to fuck off when they die for being such utter, self-important, shit-stirring bastards.
If you want to see a site devoted to telling these people what pricks they are then check out the Anti Christian Voice site. Recommended.
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