Cavalcade of Cynicism

Films Forced to make Ridiculous edits I

2011-09-08T06:52:00.000-07:00

Wrote an article for Cracked, THEY DID NOT CARE FOR IT.
So instead of having it edited or taken out of my control (They do that, they state on the writing forum) I will give it to you wonderful people, like if Daedalus didn't give his son brutal wax wings that would be his downfall, but a wonderful lecture on how the FUCKING SUN works.
Enjoy.

(I'll be uploading this piece by piece every few days or so.)

Army Of Darkness
What's It About?

First things first, it's got a poster so bloody terrific it's an affront to God. (ALL THE GODS)

The Evil Dead is a series of films that progressed from graphic dismemberment to light-hearted humour, like a misshapen reversal of the world’s most horrifying episode of The Wiggles.
Army Of Darkness is the end of the trilogy and can be described via this obnoxious hyphenated description as an action-horror-slapstick-comedy, concerned with time travel, armies of the undead and giving Duke Nukem 60% of his dialogue.

"It's time to Kick Ass and write Sam Raimi another Royalty Cheque"

The film itself usually gets mixed reactions from hardcore fans of the series, but has never the less gone on to be a renowned cult classic referenced in everything from Shaun Of The Dead to the animated show Reboot.

If you remember this, you're officially an adult. Somebody had to remind you.

Since the film’s release Sam Raimi has become one of the biggest directors in the world due to the SpiderMan movies, whilst Bruce Campbell cemented himself as THE cult icon, adored by many and endlessly mentioned on internet forums by people who’ve never seen his movies, usually on forums entitled 'WHO SHOULD PLAY THIS POPULAR COMIC/VIDEO GAME CHARACTER'...

Inane Censorship Decision

The series has always attracted controversy, because apparently people have qualms with seeing possessed teenagers dismembered with gardening equipment. Who’d have thought eh?
Army of Darkness has one of the most erratic censorship decisions of the series with regards to violence, as you'll see...below...just be patient, ok?

In this scene from early on the film, due to an elaborate back-story concerning the previous films, Protagonist Ash finds himself thrown into a medieval pit full of ‘Deadite’ zombies who he fights off with his chainsaw arm replacement anjoshg;12;lasd- Sorry, I just...zoned out there for a second due to an overload of AWESOME.....and presumably lack of sleep.

Anyway, during the battle Ash decapitates a Deadite and a shot lasting for one second shows a splash of blood hitting the wall.
What’s that? You didn't find that small time detail deplorable and outrageous? Well the Studio did, and in the DVD commentary Raimi states that THAT SHOT ALONE would have gained the film an nc-17 rating. (The equivalent of an 18 and just as bad as releasing a film 'unrated'.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PFijZxv8d8g

4.47-4.474 on that clip

As you can see, there’s nothing gratuitous about it, and a shot like that would have been commonplace in most action and horror movies of the period. Compared to most violent scenes it’s extremely tame and restrained, it’s almost as if the studio were worried it’d offend people who were outraged at the notion of 4th grade biology and borders on a patronizing 'we know what's best for everybody' mentality.

What adds to the fickleness of this demand is that the studio had no problems with a scene whereby a man’s death results in, and this is not hyperbole, A GEYSER OF BLOOD. (0.50 during the aforementioned clip).
That’s not for crude comedic effect, blood erupts out of a pit in a motion reminiscent of a violent discharge of water, once again resembling, A FUCKING GEYSER.
The Irony here is that the studio has no problem with a geyser of blood (unless they downgraded it from ‘a torrent’) but bats several maladjusted eyelids at a decapitation resulting in a mild (and realistically expected) blood spatter. I’m sure we can all agree, that’s just not Groovy.

Get it?! Because...it's a line from one of the movie- Oh I just don't know anymore...

Pseudo-philosophical culture rambling

2011-05-29T15:43:00.001-07:00

You know those generic spy-cum-assassin thrillers, where there's always some clichéd rule about not getting attached to anything? As if the ability to experience human emotion and connect to another human being will impair their ability to spear a biro into someone's jugular. If the impending stress about an awkward date at Nandos will somehow make an incredibly experience assassin hesitate about sniping a crooked official from a hot air balloon in...I dunno, Prague, or something snazzy like that. But of course, said assassin becomes attached to whatever has entered his life and is so utterly infatuated and gripped by it whilst it lasts. Every so often you find a part of the cultural zeitgeist that somehow latches onto you, pries open your skull like an novelty serial killer and pours itself all over your brain, smothering your consciousness with fantastic characters, brilliant scenarios and a general atmosphere that’s so endearing and enjoyable it’s on par with a mix between Christmas, Pizza Hut and a year huffing morphine fumes from a balloon with a smile painted on it in marker pen.
You see, I’m probably a tad unusual in the fact that I get incredibly involved with certain books or films and feel probably more irked or disappointed than most people when it’s over. I’m not talking about an obsession on par with say fetishists or the Manson family, nor does a bleak winter sky of a depression following the closing chapters, but enough to make me quite ‘reflective’ when it’s over. I imagine it’s because I’m for lack of a better phrase ‘Socially awkward’ and tend to dislike EVERYBODY WHO HAS EVER EXISTED. (Daryl Hall, Colin Firth and Kaylee from Firefly not withstanding)

I don't think you could handle a picture of Daryl Hall's magnitude.

Of course I doubt this is just me, I remember the national outpouring when the final Harry Potter book was released, or the last LOTR movie; these two examples seemed to unite the entire world into a level of unusual, yet understandable ‘mourning’ like a worldwide cultural funeral whilst the earth bawled unashamedly.
Why though? Why do we suffer such strong reactions when something goes off the air or finishes a series? Remember when FRIENDS finished and about 95% of the population were incredibly distressed, apart from E4 who realised they now held the keys to a chest containing at least 10 more years of re-runs, like a middle aged man stuck in the 90s who references long-since-funny OJ Simpson jokes and occasionally says ‘what’s the deal with....’ before unleashing a disgusting guffaw at himself like a cross between a nauseating teenager laughing and a Labour MP having an orgasm. I’d suppose we come to treat characters as ‘friends themselves, not literal, but in the sense that you’re regularly involved in their ‘lives’ and personal details, you know they’re ‘reliable’ and when they’re gone there’s a definitive sense of losing something you’ve grown strongly accustomed to, especially with a series spanning a decade or several novels.

Perhaps it’s something you’ve known since childhood, like an endearing TV show or bedwetting, and when it finally ends, it seems a sad reminder that your childhood is over, not to sound like some pseudo psycho-analytical wankpot, but it’s the knowledge that your childhood is over and your now an adult, where fun is outlawed and a mortgage is the sexiest word in your lexicon.
Characters of the opposite sex are perhaps the simplest to summarise in that they seem ‘perfect’...wait no, I don’t mean to sound like an unshaven sexual deviant who dreams of making an exercise bike out of human skin; let me explain. Think of any character of the opposite sex you’ve admired or become particularly fond of (Not in a weird way...you kook), with what description and scenarios we’re given our subconscious seems to create a character from these materials, the result being...for lack of a better word, somebody bloody awesome. They’re not the girl in your class you’re afraid to talk to, resulting in your staring gawped like a group of cavemen around a fire; nor are they the person who constantly rejects your affection, like somebody turning down a muffin full of soul affirming fun, I mean, come on, just one bite right? Just try it, you might like it! Seriously, just a nibble? Come on, give it a chance and see for yourself, EAT MY FUCKING CAKE YOU IGNORANT, TEMPESTUOUS HARPIE! DON’T MAKE ME CARVE YOUR NAME INTO MY DOOR.
.....

....Sorry about that. But to re-iterate, we perhaps become attached to characters of the opposite sex because they seem ‘obtainable’ and we’re allowed to add our own perfections and ideas onto them because they seem far more ‘possible’ than the myriad of human beings queuing to reject you and your ugly face, you loser (Except you, obviously. You’re bloody marvellous). Of course I’m using self deprecating humour to otherwise mask a point which is in fact quite adult and interesting...you get what I mean. And when these characters go, we’re disappointed because of becoming attached due to our own imaginations and hopes; yeah, it’s your fault for having the metaphysical properties involved with creating abstract representations of ideal people...you spoiled feeb. You and you’re bloody emotions eh? If only we could trade them in for something of equal value, like a game boy.

A game boy colour would be pushing it.

That said, at the end of the day it’s all about lifestyle, obviously. The reason people adore the Harry Potter stories are because, frankly, life is uneventful compared to the extravagant situations they’re having. We want what we couldn’t possibly experience for ourselves, which is why I imagine Harry, Frodo or Robocop would rather sit down at the pub than constantly have the threat of death and TERROR (all caps) thrust at them. Comic books are a massively dominant cultural force, but Spider-Man would never read one, and even if he did it’d be something low key like Archie or Dennis The Menace; because he gets enough ‘sensationalism’ in his own day to day life.
What I’m essentially trying to say is whilst the narratives and characters may be strong, we only get attached to these things because we're all so boring.

And that when this show finishes I'll have nothing left...

Job Hunting

2011-05-10T17:19:00.000-07:00

The clock on the wall has a neon plastic coating and a clear glass plate over the hands themselves; it’s loud ticking an audible notice of how out of place it is in this office. I’m guessing battery powered, about 60 years old and presumably very expensive, presumably bought from a museum or a private collector. It’s a bit ironic, how we spend so much on technology that’s technically inferior to what we have now.

Sometimes "Irony" dominates most of the purchase.

I should have worn a suit; I really should have worn a suit. I’ve opted for what could be considered as ‘smart-casual’, as much as I dislike that phrase.
A suit adds levity and class, it says ‘I am presentable and should be hired’ or ‘I have the ability to rent a suit as if that somehow affects my overall working capacity’.

"You've spent the first twelve minutes of this interview swearing profusely and hitting on my receptionist with misogynistic insults...but damn those are some neat lapels"

The man behind the desk, Mr Phoenix is head of the ‘applicant review’ scheme of this company, Solus intergalactic, the second largest interstellar management company on earth. Or third...actually it might be fourth. Well the main thing is they send vehicles and people into space, so they’re at least better than British Rail.
Actually...British rail don’t really have any need to send trains into space, it would be a pointless endeavour.
He’s taking far too long with my CV, hopefully he’s impressed. Maybe my font choice has caught his eye. That’s right, I printed on BOTH SIDES of the paper. I’m not your regular average Schmuck looking for work.
After a few minutes he looks up, links his hands and gives a warm yet quasi-fake smile.
“So with regards to the actual location, what sort of area in space would you like to be?” This is the first time I’ve heard him speak, a faint Birmingham accent that space still hasn’t managed to make him lose.
“Somewhere quite out of our solar system, not ‘rural’ in the sense of the word, but a tad unexplored thoroughly. Yeah, I’d like to go somewhere a bit ‘distant’ if that’s possible” I hear myself speak, attempting to sound professional via unnecessary elaboration.
He rifles through some files in front of him, he smiles a satisfied grin and pulls an a4 sheet out, peppered with graphs and text, I can’t see it clearly but there’s an image so dark it’s bled onto the back.
“We’ve got one here that’s located in a galaxy ‘far, far away’” He says without a hint of irony.
“Don’t patronise me sir”
“No...That’s what it says here”
He passes me the sheet; it does. Right down to the repetition of ‘far’, as if ‘far’ in itself conveys any meaning other than ‘FAR’, actually the use of one ‘far’ isn’t even needed, I’m pretty sure it’s overshadowed by the vastness conveyed by fucking ‘GALAXY’. I don’t tell him this but instead point to an image of a dark circle on the sheet.

Also the term 'Space' seems a bit underwhelming, all things considered.

“What planet is this?” I ask, genuinely intrigued.
“The thing is, it’s not on a planet. It’s funny because loads of people confuse it for a small one, or a moon, it’s a space station, called get this...The ‘Death Star!’ Awesome, right?” He rolls back on his chair and laughs theatrically, awkwardly this isn’t fake.
“It’s called the Death Star?” I pronounce every word as slow as possible to emphasise my reserve with this situation.
“I’m sure that’s just creative exaggeration, for appearance and marketing purposes, sort of like Burger King. I mean, there’s not really a king is there? ”
I’m slightly uncomfortable with his reaction to this settlement being described ‘creatively’ as a star that caters in fucking DEATH But, my curiosity has been piqued, and truth be told I’d like the work. The fact I’ve even snagged an interview is ridiculous, and at such a youngish age I shouldn’t be too testy.
“And what jobs are going?”
“Oh plenty! Security, weapons manufacturing, defence maintenance, fighter pilots, medical, interrogator, translator, spying, sabotage and cafeteria work” Well, let it not be said it isn’t diverse.
“A lot of those are...” The correct word fails me “...fighty’”
“Fighty?” His eyes widen slightly.
“Yes...fighty, in that they denote fighting is involved” It’s hard not to come across as cynical here.
“Well it is called the Death Star haha!”
“I thought you said that was just a whimsical marketing strategy”
“It is....partially, but it’s mainly because it can blow the shit out of planets.” Well those are very unprofessional colloquialisms he’s just thrown at me.
“Have you heard of Aldeeraan?” He’s elaborating, this worries me.
“No”
“No point bothering now then! Haha!” I was right to be worried; I should fake a laugh but my moral compass only allows me to pull off a grimace passing for an awkward smile. Thankfully he continues talking, allowing me to get my thoughts together, if I say anything now it would probably result in me being asked to leave.

“So anyway, have you ever been into space before?” The hands become linked again and he leans forward, an expression that, once again, might not be entirely interested.
“I went on one of the Virgin passenger flights about a year ago; we orbited Mars for about an hour...there was a cafe on board. I had a coke and took some photos of the Olympus Mons...it was my screensaver for about a month. Actually, I should have had a coke zero!” I perk up with the fake intensity of an overzealous priest trying to relate to some agnostic youths, hopefully he got my joke.
“Why a coke Zero?” He did not get my joke.
“Because of...zero...zero gravity. What with it being...space”
“But you didn’t go onto the actual planet?”
I hesitate for a second, the thought of ‘beefing up’ my CV by lying is a common occurrence, but lying about visiting a location, another planet even, isn’t something I couldn’t adequately pull off.
“No” An uneasy silence “But I’ve heard it’s nice.”
“We built a theme park there. You should visit it.” He says this just short of winking
“Why? What makes it different from any other theme park on Earth?”
“It’s on Mars. The novelty value alone is simply extravagant.”
“Well if that’s the case, you could have saved money and built a Post Office or HMV. I’m sure the actual building or purpose it serves is irrelevant, as long as it is ON MARS” Against my better judgement I continue this tirade “And anyway. A theme park on Mars may be all peaches and gravy, but I could just as easily visit...Alton Towers, without firstly having to pay for interstellar travel and secondly I wouldn’t have to wear a protective suit due to the atmosphere being so volatile it would genuinely cause me to explode from the inside, like a ghastly flesh-puppet piñata” I may have come across like a pedantic, argumentative lout, BUT it shows that I’ve done my research and know my facts, so hopefully that will smooth over the fact I’ve shit all over the fact he pissed away millions on an unprofitable, dangerous and not to mention, highly impractical behemoth of faceless corporate idiocy.
"I see, well that's certainly a strong opinion you have."
"I don't mean any offense by it Sir"

“Have you seen Total Recall?” A wry smile curls itself around the lower half of his face.
“The Schwarzenegger film with the gunfights and elaborately convoluted plot? Yeah I’ve seen that, it’s pretty aweso-“
“It’s nothing like that” He interrupts me, completely blunt faced and stoic.
“Then...why compare it to that in the first place?”
“Well you see” He leans back, eyes wandering as his chair forces out an irritating, straining leathery squeal “We don’t want our employees setting their sights too high and getting, well, stars in their eyes. So we subtly crush the enthusiasm out of them in the screening process.

Upon closer inspection, the fact it's nothing like this is probably for the best.

“Oh” I don’t even reply, it’s just me saying a vowel, appropriately without any enthusiasm.
“Just like that! You seem very reliable, now all I need now is for you to answer some quick questions and we’ll be done”
“But you’ve hardly asked me any questions”
“Oh, we just have one of the androids go over your CV and filter out the bullshit, creativity and intelligence. I mean I could do that but it would take like...what? 20 minutes? That’s just ridiculous”
“Oh Right” The man has a point, I’d rather have my future in technology be judged by...technology itself. Like some ‘Highlander’ fate nonsense, hard to believe that was voted the greatest film of the past century...my mind’s wandering, questions, he has questions!
“Right, firstly, what university did you graduate from?”
“The southern London technology college”
“Oh interesting, which part of the south?”
“Well it’s technically...underground, so it kind of is ‘south’. It’s a very misleading name, but an efficient learning environment”
“Underground?! Screw the rest of the questions. That’s bloody interesting stuff, I like you already.”
“Oh...thank you” Apparently, learning engineering near the earth’s core is a viable working trait.
He gets up and shakes my hand, If I’m going to speak I may as well now, I honestly don’t want to be a webmaster for some planet destroying...space...fortress.
“Not to be up front or ungrateful sir, but this...dead...star-“
“Death Star”
“Yes that, would it be possible if I...didn’t get sent there?”
“Oh, any reasons why not?” Apprehension, I need a lie. A lie that won’t be hunted down.
“Religious reasons, my religion...means I can’t be there. I can go into space, just not areas of space whereby planets are blown up...by moon sized instruments of terror”
“Well, we’ll call you soon, happy to have you as part of the team, hopefully” Don’t wink....and we’re safe. He leads me to the door and I exit as he closes it abruptly.

Above all, I think...that went well.

Deleted Friend activities from Grand Theft Auto 4.

2011-04-26T12:10:00.001-07:00

Is three years too late to hop on the bandwagon?
Is there even a bandwagon to hop on?

Who gives a Caligula-organised buggering anyway.

"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's get our anuses bleached!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's organise a gay pride rally!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's buy fancy 17th century replica pocket watches!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's actually go IN A SANDBOX!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's compare toenail clippings!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's drink responsibly and safely walk home!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's upgrade our broadband to a more reliable provider!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's clear out the attic!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's do Bill Cosby impressions and hurl fashion-based critique abuse at pedestrians!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's make a box fort!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's convert protein into energy!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's wear inappropriate hats at social situations that call for an entirely different category of hat"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's edit and sabotage the Wikipedia page of Henry 7th with the facts of Henry the 6th!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's play Wand of Gamalon!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? I wonder what's for dinner!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's eat octorocks!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's bomb some dadongos!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's put on our red shoes and dance the blues!"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's wash out our used cans and containers for the recycle collection"
"Hey Cousin what are you up to? Let's shave each other!"

The Job Offer

2011-04-17T17:34:00.000-07:00

Clive sat down at his desk like a man who couldn’t type very well standing up. These TPS reports weren’t going to file themselves, which in all honesty was a good thing, else Clive would be unemployed.
The dull ‘reverbing’ buzz of the computer was pleasant, like feedback from the world’s weakest guitar amplifier; it was the sort of noise that made Clive feel secure from the pitch black clouds that loomed outside, and the rain that was battering the window like a swarm of irritated wasps. Angry enough to form a collective mob harbouring similar feelings of resentment, but not smart enough to work out how to use their collective mass to open a window; to summarise, Clive thought....Wasps are idiots.
This insect-weather contempt was cut short when Clive heard a voice call his name, which technically is kind of obvious...you don’t exactly see voices, or smell them. But I digress, it was a woman, a woman’s voice drenched in stern, yet class, authority.
“Clive, can I see you in my office?”
“I don’t know, maybe if you moved one of your cabinets away from the window. Or set up some cameras” He pushed his glasses awkwardly with his forefinger
“No I mean, now. Can I physically see you there now?”
“Oh. Right. Yeah I’ll be there in a sec. Actually, seeing as you’re partially out of your office, wouldn’t it be easier for you to come to me?”
“It’s a private matter”
“Then why do you need me?”
“A private matter ABOUT YOU”
“Oh.....then you could just whisper”
“Just get in here quickly, ok? Please?”
“Righto. I’ll be there in a sec”
Clive instinctively felt the dull gut punch of panic, like when you take a bite out of a chocolate cake and realise it’s merely a sour fruit gateaux.
Steven from row C mimed the act of a noose around his neck and winked at Clive. Clive raised an eyebrow and tightened his forehead, unsure what the 17^th century punishment for stealing corn had to do with his impromptu meeting with Veronica.

Clive ambled towards Veronica’s door and knocked; a relatively pointless act as she A) had a wall of windows and B) had just asked for him anyway that minute.
Pushing open the door Clive stood upright, hands in his pockets.
“You wanted to see me Veronica”
She rose from her chair and placed her palms on the desk, her black hair hanging in front of her eyes, in a way that only hair can.
Her blazer was unbuttoned in a ‘get off speeding tickets’ fashion and she had all the confidence and presence of a woman who knew what she was doing, be it in terms of a strong demeanour and a fully working ability to send electrical signals to the brain, but that’s just an unrelated scientific truth that only Clive would have acknowledged.
“Are you married Clive?”
“No”
“Girlfriend?”
“I’m sorry?”
“As in..Do..you...have..one?”
“Oh...No, no I don’t” He didn’t so much as speak his words as struggle to push them out, he had a disturbing feeling that Veronica didn’t want to talk about the quality of fax machine paper. Which frankly, needed to be discussed.
“I’m going to be blunt with you Clive” Veronica moved in front of her desk, arms folded and almost tiptoeing forward, slinked in front of him.
“I’m bored Clive. I’m just....so bored all of the time”
“Have you tried getting....a game boy?” He swallowed. Hard.
She placed her hand at the top of his thigh. This was rare, hands were never at the top of Clive’s thigh, not even his own, save for some aggressive crumb removal whenever he’d be careless whilst eating muffins.
“My Husband” She whispered in a voice that had no place in an office, “My husband refuses to...give me things. He doesn’t share”
“What? Like....a communist?” Every word choked Clive as they dredged themselves out of his throat.
Clive remained motionless, his eyes transfixed at an arbitrary spot on the wall that may as well have been a sight on par with the Sistine chapel, albeit confined to a 1cm piece of drywall.
“You’re desk looks very...presentable”
“I have sex on it”
“Wow...that must be...bad for its overall state. I mean, it mustn’t be doing the stability any...favours”
She removed her hand, stepped backwards and laughed, her usual feminine voice becoming quite deep and aggressive.
Clive had never considered himself an attractive individual. One colleague had once joked that he had all the appeal of a mass grave full of children. Well it seemed a joke. Clive had laughed, but in retrospect it was on par with the laugh of a hostage.

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised and a stern expression on her lips. Here was a woman who wanted wine and he was bringing her coke. Two beads of sweat raced down Clive’s forehead, his hands clenched in his pockets.
“So...I have to go, I’ll be done with the Coleman reports pretty soon. Yeah..pretty soonish”
“I’m not going to lie Clive. The reason I’ve chosen you out of all those idiots outside is that you’re least likely to tell all your buddies about this over poker or whatever the hell you men do. You’re efficient and you’re reliable, and that’s what I need.”
Clive was clenching his fists so hard that his nails were digging into his palms, it was a good thing he was pedantic with his clipping, else they would have caused some serious damage.
“Veronica. This seems very...un-you. It’s quite stereotypical and a borderline offensive portrayal of women, and as a staunch equal rights advocate I find that quite......unpleasant”
She was so close now he could feel her breath on his lips and, truth be told, it was quite annoying. This was at the forefront of Clive’s mind, and for a second he considered taking up her offer if only to get rid of that irritating warmth that she was blowing onto his face.
“You don’t know me Clive.” She smiled “I see you every day, you eat by yourself, you do your work double time, hell you even sit in your car before work every morning for a few minutes”
“I wait for the song on the radio to finish...else it just irks me”
Veronica moved backwards and then sat down, a move so abrupt that Clive took a second to realise that she was no longer in his face, she began shuffling papers, her eyes away from Clive.
“Um....what are you doing?” He stuttered.
“Work, some of us aren’t as good as you.” She laughed “But, just think about what I said OK? You can go now” She winked once, that was one too many for Clive.
He exited stiffly, all the poise and subtlety of a man who’d just witnessed a murder. He ambled back to his desk, Steven was still ‘noosing’ about as he walked past.
“What was that about then man?”Steven smirked, the smirk of a prick.
“I think she wants to have sex with me” Clive stuttered each word, deadpan.
Steven rolled back in his chair and laughed loudly.
“That’s classic man! Shit, I didn’t know you were a funny guy! Well, whatever Dude. I gotta work”
Clive sunk into his chair, expressionless. He had a plethora of emotions to choose from in this emotional tombola, but he could only pick out one; guilt. He felt bad lying to Veronica. He’d already done the Coleman reports hours ago.

Untitled thing.

2011-04-15T12:23:00.000-07:00

Int. A small seminar room, quiet and with little distractions. There are 3 people on a small table, each doing various bits of work. NICK is sat next to LUCY and opposite them on the table is KEN. (With me so far? Good? Good.)

Nick
Seven squared?

Ken
Forty-nine.

Nick writes this down

Nick
Fifty-five divided by eleven?

Ken (Raising an eyebrow)
Five...

Nick writes this down

Nick
Seventy X divided by twenty X?

Ken
...Malcolm X.

Nick writes this down. Lucy on the opposite side of the table looks up, bemused.

Nick
The root of six thousand?

Ken
Beirut.

Lucy
Nick, you are aware what he is doing?

Nick
Why yes Lucy...yes I am.

Nick shows his notepad to Ken, “YOU’RE A TWAT’ is written in capital letters.

Ken
Well...at least you managed to spell ‘you’re’ correctly. What’s up with that work anyway, it seems a bit too easy and/or patronising for university.

Nick
It’s a ‘maths refresher’. We’re meant to do some stripped down basic sums to remind us of the ‘beauty of maths’.

Lucy
Is that like The Power of Love?

Ken
Huey Lewis and the news, or Frankie Goes to Hollywood?

Lucy
What’s the difference?

Ken (air-quotes)
The type of ‘Love’ involved...

Nick
I don’t see the point of this; I don’t care for the beauty of maths.

Ken
Nobody does. The only people who care for the beauty of maths, let alone use that phrase ‘non-ironically’ make chairs out of skin.

Lucy
At least the angles would be accurate...

Ken
Ooh, well played.

We hear a door open and GID appears, he throws his bag onto the table.

Gid
Shit. Shitting shit! Shitting shitballs.

The Screen freezes, the boss music from Mega Man 2 plays (youtube it) and the words “GID” “CURRENTLY ANNOYED” appear.

Ken
That’s very upbeat. What’s up?

Gid
Hamlet! Again! Sodding Hamlet, I’ve done Hamlet the past two years, yet once it appears in the curriculum like a fucking poltergeist. Seriously, if I have to do any more Hamlet I will, appropriately, kill myself.

Ken
Context relevant...

Gid
I hate Hamlet more than the degrading remains of Saxo Grammaticus.

Nick
Isn’t that a car manufacturer?

Gid
He’s 12^th century Danish Historian, Shakespeare ‘borrowed’ a lot of his story elements. See! See what it does to you! You know that idea that new knowledge pushes something else out? That’s what is happening, I know that bloody fact which will appeal to Danish people, lecturers, and Danish Lecturers, but it’s probably meant I’ve now forgotten something tedious and minor but to me, incredibly important, like secondary Batman Villains or how fast it took the Millennium Falcon to do the Kessel run.

Ken
The what...run?

Gid (Despair)
I don’t know!

Lucy
At least you haven’t spent the past 2 months watching ‘Crash’ for your media course.

Gid (Sitting down)

Isn’t that the racism movie?

Ken
I imagine it’s a bit more ‘in depth’ than that.

Lucy
No, Gid’s absolutely right. It spends 2 hours telling you how all races are equal, and that hey...black people aren’t bad! And Latinos aren’t lazy, and white people aren’t all racist. And then you’re supposed to be surprised and awestruck at this knowledge, even though it’s common sense. It’s the most patronising, smug piece of crap I will ever see. I expected it to end with Ebony and Ivory playing at the credits. Although, I now hate racism more than I did before, so it had a positive effect on me. Urgh!

Gid
So...apart from my Shakespearean contempt and Lucy’s ‘after school special’, what are we all up to?

Ken
I’m just killing time till my next seminar.

Nick (head in his work)
I’m learning about the beauty of maths...

Gid

The beauty of maths? Don’t people who say that make chairs out of-

Ken
We already discussed that.

Gid
Oh, right.

Lucy
Have you seen Kenneth Branagh’s version of Hamlet? It’s 3 hours long, but really good. We watched it last year in theatre. Although not as good as the Romeo and Juliet with Leonardo Dicaprio.

Ken
What happens in that version?

Lucy
He does things....in a shirt. I think that outweighs the fundamentals of it.

Gid
How generically ‘woman-like’.

Nick
Isn’t Kenneth Branagh the bad guy in Wild Wild West, with the metal legs?

Gid
It’s a shame your first port of call for Kenneth Brannagh is a film with a giant metal spider...

Nick (oblivious)
Will Smith did the sound-track!

Gid
That is true...

Lucy
It’s amazing how you can be so...simple Nick.

Gid
Well it’s an odd world...we’ve got wars, paranormal events, and people who find it perfectly acceptable to give Gwyneth Paltrow an academy award.

Ken
What for?

Gid(Contempt)
Shakespeare in Love.

Lucy
Ooh, full circle.

Ken
That beat Saving Private Ryan for best Picture...just let that sink in.

Gid (Starts off accusatory, shifts into depressed)
It’s sad how that affects you...and me for that matter.

Nick (in his work)
Isn’t Saving Private Ryan based on a true story?

Ken
Not really.

Nick (lifting his head)
Yes it is...world war 2.

Gid
Ooh, reversal.

Lucy
Hey, can we even be in this room?

Nick
Nobody’s here.

Ken
Evidently...

Gid
Yeah, when you text me, I found it a bit odd. But whatever, I’ll just blag it...

Lucy
You’ll blag it?

Gid
Yeah, anyway, why this room?

Ken
We all sort of just had time to kill and the door was left open so, why not?

Gid (raised eyebrow)
Why not?

We hear a door open and a voice off-screen say ‘hello?’. Gid shrieks and flails dramatically (GET IT?! GET THE COMEDY THERE??!)

Ken
Can we help you?

Girl at door
Is this the spelunking club?

The group look at each other awkwardly for a few seconds.

All at once (Minus Nick)
No.

Nick
Maybe.

Girl at door
Oh right, never mind.

She closes the door and leaves.

Gid
We have a spelunking club? When did this happen?

Lucy
What’s spelunking?

Nick
Cave exploring, odd because she seemed too attractive for it.

Ken
I don’t even think that’s a stereotype.

Nick
Name one attractive cave explorer, apart from Lara Croft.

Ken
I can’t even name one cave explorer full stop, and you know...that’s never kept me awake at night.

Nick
I reckon I’d make a good cave explorer, and we were talking about WW2 earlier, I reckon I’d be pretty good at that aswell.

Lucy
Really?

Nick
Me and Tom Hanks, taking down Nazis, I’m pretty sure that’d be great.

Gid
Even I could kick your arse.

Nick
Oh yeah? Please explain.

This next bit will make a lot more sense if you’re a fan of Hong Kong Cinema, but...deal with it. Nick and Gid, on opposite sides of the table, now wearing shades, both draw guns in a very obnoxiously ballet-esque slow motion. (Easy to film, I’ll make sure of it)
Cut back to Gid thinking and then Zach.

Zach
Were you thinking the same as-

Gid
John Woo movie?

Zach
John Woo movie.

Lucy
John Who?

Nick
John WOO.

Lucy
That’s what I just asked!

Gid
Don’t do this to yourselves...

Lucy
I have no idea what you guys are on about.

Nick
You never have any idea-

Gid
Stop it!

Nick
Stop what?

Gid
That...that back and forth ‘whimsy’ snappy dialogue...it’s like a tedious sitcom. Except you two lack the necessary sexual tension to be entertaining, that said ee all know that sitcoms are ruined after the two leads do it. Under no circumstances should they, apart from the expected pornographic parody. My flatmate bought one as a joke, and let me tell you, everybody certainly does love Raymond.

Lucy
The Frankie goes to Hollywood kind?

Gid
If only...wait..that didn’t come out right.

Ken
You know that an in-depth discussion about something quite thin and low-brow, like a sitcom, is a staple of most sitcoms...so you’re not doing yourself any favours.

Gid
Alright ok from now on, let’s just do some work. No catchphrases, no wacky over the top shenanigans, let’s just be boring meat-and-potatoes individuals, no stereotypes or whatever.

We cut to somebody standing near the table, wearing a backwards hat and a manner of ‘wacky clothing’.

Stereotype

He’s damn right, Ri-dunk-u-lous!

Cut to black

Gid (Voice only)
Right, I’m leaving.

We hear the door close, and a few seconds of silence.

Lucy
Everybody else can see this guy right?

Nick
I’m sorry...who are you?

Ken
Just be quiet, maybe he’ll leave.

Roll credits.

After credits sequence, we see the back head of a soldier crouching on a sloped hill on a field, (Easy to film, just need to get some props for the top half of the two guys). We hear his voice off-screen and then see NICK awkwardly clamber into show in front of him.

Nick
Tom... Tom... Tom! Tom hey! Isn’t this war crazy, by the way, I loved Forrest Gump!

Cut to Black, we hear an explosion

Nick( Slightly flustered, but nonchalant)
Oops, Shrapnel.

Show Lutube TV logo, AND END.

Oliver Twists town of bloody awesome.

2010-11-10T12:02:00.000-08:00

Oliver Twist opens his windows as the morning breeze beats outside, the sun punches him in the face with a glare far removed from the soot ridden shag rug that we’re used to, with the occasional bursts of fleeting yellow, like a squatters arse above us as he periodically farts out sunny delight....so yeah, it’s a nice morning. This morning is a bastion of utter emotion tickling joy, in a world devoid of hopeless feebs and Jersey Shore. Oliver Twist looks outside and sees all manner of passerby and whimsical salesperson, and then BAM, they all start dancing, not as if some hilariously inappropriate coincidence, but a full on Broadway chorus with impressive simultaneous choreography as if such giddy moves are a natural part of everybody’s DNA; as opposed to the image of an ironic dictator forcing the populous to perform these routines vigorously at gunpoint...that’s a tad bleak for Oliver Twist’s BLOODY AWESOME MORNING. But amongst this saccharine drenched cascade there’s presumably one solitary individual who stands taken aback, shrugging their shoulders as they walk awkwardly past and muttering to themselves ‘Shutup...shutup...shutup’.

"Shut your goddamn mouths you whimsical shits"

That bedraggled ‘fish-out-of-water’ of ineptitude is usually me when I’m out.
I’m not saying that any town I’m in is a whimsical carousal of sugar-coated fun, but it may aswell be when I’m there.
This general dislike isn’t based on anything other than my own beleaguered awkwardness, which I’m sure quite a few people get, the sort of feeling you get around large groups of people that deflate your self esteem and give you the demeanour of a tight-lipped serial killer amongst a crowd or a midget at a stilt convention.
Perhaps it’s to do with own awkwardness around people, put me in a room full of folks and I’ll become some awful guffawing ‘aw-shucks’ bullshit ‘class clown’, all the while wanting to punch myself in the face. I hate the term class clown; it often denies some ‘zany’ prick that won’t shut his mouth and farts loudly before blaming somebody else to chorus of idiotic applause. But as is my personality, I’ll automatically put on a completely different front because I’m ‘delightfully befuddled and as self criticising as any neurotic Woody Allen character.’...urgh. CHARMING STUFF INNIT?
Anyway, yeah back to town. I was about 4 minutes off the bus when I saw a man that can only be described by the term ‘brick shithouse’, he must have been as wide as a garden shed and as tall as one of the smaller idols of an Egyptian god. Alongside him, off a leash was perhaps the largest dog I’ll ever see, it was essentially an Alsatian bred with a bloody panzer tank, it’s teeth were the size of dinner plates and I’m pretty sure it had a small boy wedged between its mouth. But somehow, nobody apart from me found this as slightly out of place, everybody took it in stride as if this was a swords-and-sandals Schwarzenegger movie.

It was also October the 30^th yet I saw plenty of people dressed in Halloween costumes, when did this happen? When did we start celebrating an event the day before, thus ruining the actual ‘specialness’ of the day due to our own impatience? As I was queuing in McDonalds (It’s as if somebody constructed a building out of a nervous breakdown and seething hate) somebody came up behind me dressed as a vampire and proceeded to be a complete and utter tit in the queue; odd, I don’t recall McDonalds ever selling pints of blood or fair haired virgins. Something that got my attention though, was when McCount Dracula lamented to his friend‘I wish it was Halloween everyday!’ which, ignoring what a logistical nightmare it would be, opened up plenty of bloody amusing scenarios in my head whilst I queued. Imagine David Cameron addressing the nation as Worzel Gummidge or JFK getting shot whilst dressed as the ham-burgler by a ‘Charlie Brown’ attired Lee Harvey Oswald, it’d certainly make crime-watch far more unintentionally hilarious than it already is, no mean feat.

"Let's take the open roof today Jackie"

Speaking of Halloween, the cash point I needed to use was surrounding by a group of awful 14 year olds as, presumably, one of them had got their first debit card and they were apparently so ‘like totally stoked man’. They cordoned it off for about 5 minutes wailing and flailing their arms like some pre-pubescent un-dead horde fighting over the entrails of some poor bastard. It’s a tad depressing though to see their exuberance over this; unaware of the incredibly stressful emotional synapses that will break and tear in later years due to the very thing they were so excited over, money. This of course made me chuckle.
To be honest I don’t know where this rant’s going, I’m probably like one of those crotchety old men who yell at pigeons for no discernable reason other than the fact they exist. So yeah, town makes me awkward, people make me awkward, and any activities that don’t involve breathing out of my nostrils make me awkward. And to be honest there’s a small part of me that thinks everybody else feels the same, everybody and their horrifyingly large dog.
Why are you even reading this? It’s a lovely day go outside.

Ryu's day off 'to-do' list

2010-09-06T10:24:00.000-07:00

Wake up in clothing from past 4 days. Only change clothes if player presses X or Y.
Make a sandwich. Try to enjoy sandwich but become weighed down by the crushing knowledge that my sandwich making skills just aren't good enough and I must push myself harder with regards to aforementioned sandwich making skill.
Delete insulting facebook messages from Sagat.

"You are a fag-TIGER!"

See Ken.
Begrudgingly agree to watch 'Dog the Bounty Hunter' with Ken
Constantly refuse to high five Ken during 'Dog the Bounty Hunter'
Be bemused at why 'Dog' simply does not shroyuken these criminals.
Yell "DOWN, DOWN-FORWARD, FORWARD PUNCH" at fanboys in the street.
Try and swap theme music with Guile. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLJLyneZGKc)
Call Dhalsim 'Stretch Armstrong' on forums. Feel pride at such an original insult, then proceed to make jokes about him giving people 'strangers'.
Remind self that Sakura is 16.
Pilgrimage around Japanese mountains, harnessing power and chi from nature in order to forward my own inner peace and self preservation.
Continue not wearing shoes.

I did this about 3 years ago..

2010-09-04T08:22:00.001-07:00

...Discuss..

It took a good hour...

Underwhelming Movie death.

2010-08-17T10:17:00.000-07:00

This might be a regular feature, I don't know.

I watch a lot of films and I'm easily enraged in a pedantic lonely manner so I guess this could work.

ANYWAY, I was watching Mission Impossible 3 a while back and one of the characters died such an UNDERWHELMING DEATH (*Sitcom audience cheer*) That I felt compelled to complain in a blog to about 4 people, I'll explain why, also there's spoilers here...so..you know...either watch the film or wikipedia it if you don't want to be a pithy whine.

Anyhoo, the character in question is the main antagonist is Owen Davian played by award-vacuum walrus in a sock looking Philip Seymour Hoffman.

"AROOOOOOO..I'd like to thank the Academy"

Now Owen Davian, apart from having a name like the..'questionable' member of a boyband, is an effective, well played character and in all accounts an unquestionable dick. He kills Ethan Hunt's protege, kidnaps his fiancee and threatens to kill her, and at some point probably finds the time to illegally download episodes of 'Shot of Love with Tila Tequila'

ANYWAY, the death itself. Right, so we've had 2 hours of Davian being a collosal arsehole and he finds himself in a fist fight with Hunt. Also worth a mention is that Hunt has had a bomb detonate in his brain that means he is writhing with agony at a blinding noise of intangible pain.

Kind of like listening to Poison...

Anyway, Davian and Hunt find themselves scrambling awkwardly throughout a Chinese street, with Hunt managing to hold his own and still kick ass, but it looks like Davian has the upper hand and Hunt needs to come up with something, anything to make it out alive, so what does he do?!

.....Bugger all. Absolutely nothing, because Davian gets hit by a car whilst Hunt rolls out the way.

A car.

He gets hit by a car.

No luck or skill or Action hero-esque smarts involved, just shit perception to acknowledge incoming traffic.

Needless to say, WHAT THE HELL. I just spent 2 hours seeing this guy carving his own tombstone for one hell of a brutal and well deserved send off, and what do I get? A bloody PSA, a sodding short minute film they show in assemblies so kids look both ways before skipping into traffic.

I demanded more, I needed some sort of send off that Davian deserved, a gunshot and a witty quip, an ironic death, or maybe even Hunt nailing Davian to a chair and making him watch 'Cocktail' till his blood ejected itself through every available orifice like a punctured sewer pipe.

"Where's the plot?! OH GOD WHERE'S THE PLOT?!

So, to alleviate some amount of lonely, LONELY rage I have, I have written an alternate and probably far more awesome send off.

We see Hunt and Davian in an abandoned factory, Davian has Hunt at gunpoint and is edging towards him.

Davian: It's over Hunt, looks like you won't be killing anybody today...except those henchmen of mine, and your friend who was a mole in the government...ok, as from this moment onwards, you won't be killing anybody today..because you'll be dead. By me. They should never send a boy to do a man's mission....IMPOSSIBLE THREE!.

All hope appears lost, but Hunt spies something in the corner of his eye and begins to laugh.

Davian: What's so funny Hunt?

Hunt: You don't know?

Davian: Know what..?

Hunt: Oh, I thought that you XEE-KNEW!

Hunt pulls out a copy of Dianetics from under his shirt and tosses it at a metal container above Davian, releasing the angry thetans from millions of years prior who ensnare Davian and drag him upwards towards a celestial ship that has appeared as he screams in fury, yet his logic and scientific reasoning do nothing as he is pulled inwards and all is quiet.

Hunt: Looks like that wasn't Impossible....MISSION IMPOSSIBLE......THREE!

*80s freeze frame as the credits roll over 'Pour some Sugar on me'*

So...far superior right? I eagerly await Hollywood's embrace.

Also generic Scientology jokes never get old.

Superprickery

2010-04-27T14:24:00.001-07:00

“What do you call a Geordie superhero?”
Silence and anticipation loomed, the reveal taking as much time as it needed to unveil itself.
“Why-Aye Man”
BAM! Laughter, raucous, life affirming delicious, nutritious vitamin filled laughter flooded the auditorium. Two thousand voices joined together in a delightful harmony that’d make even the Bee-gees think about packing it in.
Wade Whitman was a comedian; he’d been one of the greatest comedians in the world for the past decade, just behind George Bush and tonight demonstrated why. His dry British wit, insightful musings and ability to make people chuckle to no end was something he’d most been proud of in life and it created one hullaballoo of a show and the atmosphere was electric; no seriously, literally electric, there were a lot of faulty wiring problems...quite dangerous actually.
BAM ANOTHER JOKE!
BAM! BAM BAM! He didn’t relent with the torrent of humour.
“Doves mate for life....must take a while”
LAUGHTER! BAM! WHAM! ZAMBOOZLE! This was one hell of a show and numerous subjects were touched upon, as Wade bobbed and weaved into various areas.
“I think the only chances of me getting married are if I have my wife shipped from overseas, and learn English from a crude cassette tape. No seriously folks, I’ve been single for so long even my right hand’s stopped talking to me”
Self deprecation always seemed to hit home, and Wade absolutely nailed it, like a lovable tramp musing on his failures in life.
Wade was about to go onto his routine about obesity, something that’d been hugely successful the previous shows this tour before suddenly becoming deadly silent. He could sense something wasn’t right, and it was unrelated to the itch at the top of his thighs, that was just generally awkward.
The floor began to shake aggressively, lights spasm-d on and off and the very floor itself began to crack and strain and towards the middle of the auditorium the floor rose between the aisles, it pushed upwards like that chestburster scene off Alien, except with concrete and carpet replacing skin and Sigourney Weaver. A hand punched through the floor and dragged part of it down as it pulled up the body attached to it, this most certainly wasn’t part of the show, but Wade knew what was coming, he had suspected as much this would happen.
The figure that had rudely interrupted Wade’s show pulled itself from the crater that now lay in the auditorium; he was a tall lanky figure wearing what only could be described as brightly coloured red rags and blue, like a rainbow crossed with a homeless person. He had a beard clung to his face with all the strength and determination of a midget at a urinal whilst he had eyes that were gateway to sheer unbridled hatred and evil, like a window at the Rooney household.
He rose fully, broadened his shoulders and pointed at Wade.
“Well Sarcasm-man, sorry to DROP IN!” He hissed with a generic ‘prickish’ voice.
Wade hesitated for a few seconds, a flurry of expressions running across his face, anger, frustration, puzzlement, deep thought, basically everything but arousal really. He then rose the microphone to his mouth and grinned.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, my arch nemesis...the comedic Terrorist.”
Silence as members of the audience began to wonder if this was part of the act, Wade began to talk, as if delivering a comedic monologue.
“Yes, It is correct, I AM the superhero known as sarcasm man, for all 6 of you in the audience who still don’t know this. The comedic-head terrorist over here is my arch nemesis, also kudos for messing up the intro pun there fella, his powers involve being a general unfunny prick who can do supervillain-esque stuff. Also as demonstrated when he entered, he isn’t funny, at all... In the slightest.”
The comedic terrorist advanced forward and raised his fist.
“After constantly being foiled by you Sarcasm man, I have finally resolved to my most cunning plan yet. To humiliate you...in front of a paying audience!” His laugh roared, full of malice and hate.
Wade raised an eyebrow.
“How...do you plan on doing this?”
“By having a JOKE OFF of course!”
Wade fell to his knees and imitated shooting himself, he banged the microphone against his head and muttered to himself.
“Oh sweet holy hell.....really? REALLY?! I mean seriously? This isn’t an 8 mile rap battle; I will actually physically decimate you. You’re the Nazis and I’m the Russians here pal. I’ve got more lines than Pete Doherty’s coffee table”
The comedic terrorist launched himself into the air and levitated above the terrified, yet oddly intrigued audience members.
“You’re scared. You know I’ll win SarGAYsm man. You suck at most things, you fail at comedy and women hate you!”
Wade leapt to his feet, visibly agitated.
“HEY! Like Me in relation to those women, that was not called for. Fine...go nuts, whatever”
The Comedic Terrorist descended to the ground and leapt onto the stage opposite Wade, he spread his feet and thrust his finger at Wade.
“Your mother...is so fat, that it’s a serious health risk to her!”
Quiet silence, no response, even tumbleweeds would feel ashamed to drift aimlessly in this awkward silence.
Wade rolled his eyes.
“Your mother is so fat, she fell down the stairs and I thought Eastenders had finished”
The crowd roared hard. Even the fear of a subpar super villain holding them hostage was overwhelmed by that zinger.
This back and forth continued relentlessly for a good...oh 15 minutes, Wade getting the upper hand over every single joke Comedic Terrorist could muster up.
“You suck so hard, that things stick to you easily” The Comedic Terrorist spat out, still revelling in the applause he imagined in his head.
“Just give up seriously, you’ll never be half the man your mother is” Wade sighed.
The crowd hollered and hooted and all manner of verbs Dr Seuss probably used, the comedic terrorist looked around exasperated, he realised he could never win this and did the only thing he could logically think of, burn the crap out of things.
He raised his arms and screamed, shards of flame sprang out of his finger tips and sped towards Wade. Would he be able to escape them in time?!?!....
....Yes, obviously....he’s a superhero.
Wade dashed out of the way and the flames simply hit an usher, no problem there. Not the artist called Usher...although he had a song called burn, so that’d be kind of ironic wouldn’t it?
ANYWAY, Wade was now in Sarcasm-man mode and strode towards the comedic terrorist and pulled his arm back.
“Here’s the punchline”
His hand connected with the comedic terrorists jaw with the sort of strength and violence only reserved for ex wives of OJ Simpson, resulting in him speeding upwards and crashing through the roof, until he resembled a small blip in the sky.
Wade sighed and silence ensued for a few seconds before he grinned and turned to the audience, he raised the microphone.
“Well, I’ve had some heckles in my time...”

Nania part 2

2010-04-04T14:15:00.001-07:00

The elderly welcoming party beamed at Eric and Shawn as they walked towards them, one of the taller women began ruffling Eric’s hair, dishevelling it further. What a fun word, Dishevel, in fact we hardly ever use ‘sheveled’, just think about that. Eric snapped and batted her away
“Stop your irritating politeness! We’re not children, we’re adults, albeit with the mindset of somebody suffering middle age”
The smallest woman spoke.
“Are you two just visiting then?” She sighed
Shawn hesitated “....Yeeeeeeeees”
“Oh never mind, fine go about your business. We were expecting meals on wheels or a visit from our relatives” She rolled her eyes, specifically at Eric for some reason.
“That seems kind of redundant, what with you living in a different world accessed through cheap badly made furniture. Surely it’d be easier to at least establish some sort of reliable transport system between the two worlds” Eric’s suggestion of a cohesive inter-dimensional travel seemed far too high brow for such a simple parody. One of the elderly men grabbed his braces and raised his eyebrows.
“Well we tried that, but we didn’t trust them foreign builders, and getting English workers is mighty hard I tell you”
“You’re mighty hard” Shawn spat out
“Excuse me young man?”
“Sorry, knee jerk reaction. You were saying?”
An awkward silence crept over the conversation as both parties stared at each for a very uncomfortable amount of time, almost uncomfortable as this excessive ellipse use I will now use..............................
.......
The smallest woman broke the silence, like she’d kung fu chopped it, or something funnier than that.
“So are you boys courting?”
Eric raised his eyebrow, bemused.
“Pardon?”
“Are you boys dating?”
Eric once again raised his eyebrow.
“Like...each other?”
“No, no do you two boys have any women in your life?” She probed
Shawn responded with a nod.
“Yeah I’ve got a girlfriend, Eric doesn’t.”
The elderly woman took a step back and became defensive.
“You’re not one of them...queers are you?”
Eric was obviously pissed off, some old midget woman had accused him of being gay, and he would not tolerate this!
“Dear Zeus no I’m not, and you don’t even know me old woman, ok so step off. I have no qualms with beating a woman in public. I will literally murder your face off”
One of the old men spoke “What about the pub?” And was promptly ignored.
Shawn turned to Eric with a look of disdain.
“Did you just say ‘step off’? Wow. Not even Ice-T says that...”
The old man spoke once again ‘I’d like some Iced Tea” and was once again promptly ignored.
The elderly woman seemed to ignore this threat and laughed to herself.
“Well, we’ll leave you two boys to get your bearings. We’re just a in a small village beyond those trees over there, you should see a sign that says ‘no solicitors’, that’s us. To the west of us is the Co-op in the great mines, and over there is the black tower.” She pointed to a shape in the distance, a large space black obelisk that stabbed the winter sky, a contrast to the white vegetation that lay scattered about. “The black tower is where the enemy of the elderly lives, and we urge you to avoid it, like we avoid having any respect for those younger than us. And with that we must depart, Bergerac starts in 20 minutes and we’d hate to miss it”
And on that unsurprising note the elderly group shuffled back through the forest towards their village on the other side, leaving Eric and Shawn alone in the snowy clearing.

“We have to go to that dark tower” Shawn exclaimed
“Why? The old midgets said it’s inhabited by the enemy of the elderly” Eric replied...replyingly.
Shawn beamed, “And you know what that is?”
Eric paused for a second, stroked his chin and then raised his hand.
“...Harold Shipman?”
“No! Rock and roll! Although that was kind of close, oddly enough”
“I think I’m gonna head back home” Eric stated.
“BUH?! Why? Why why?”
“Because I’m not about to wander some fantasy-esque winter woodland to a dark tower on the spur of the moment, I am cold dammit! If I go back then at least I can come prepared with like...a coat and a thermos next time.”
Shawn sighed and pointed an accusing finger at Eric, like a cheesy cop movie.
“You know, it’s no wonder you’re awkward and boring and single. You refuse to have any ounce of fun or even live a little.”
“That is not true, I was perfectly having fun eating my tuna sandwich and watching Dawn of the Dead!” Eric yelled, his voice soaring above the snow drenched trees like a runaway weather balloon containing an American boy, only he wasn’t in there all along. I can’t even believe it was news, so what if some stupid American child was trapped on a weather balloon, ok, that’s called natural selection. Anyway yeah, Eric was pissed off...and stuff.
“Eric come on, stop being lame. Maybe if you started taking risks you wouldn’t be so unattractive to women”
“That’s uncalled for, come on”
“It’s true. Hell, you spend so much time in the friend zone you should buy a FUCKING VILLA THERE!”
Eric stared at his feet for a second, and looked up expressionless. He spoke quietly and without any anger
“You’re right, but that’s who I am, now I’m gonna head back. I’ll see you in a bit I guess”
He turned around and moped off back the way they had came from, Shawn opened his mouth but thought it was best to leave him be, he then began to make his way towards the dark tower in the distance.
After about 5 minutes Eric arrived at where the wardrobe was, and by ‘was’ I literally mean ‘WAS’, as it was no longer there. Eric hastily looked around, the footprints ended there so he was in the right place, but the wardrobe itself was nowhere to be found, like WMD’s in Iraq or humour in American Sitcoms. He ran his hands through his hair and groaned loudly.
“I’m never gonna be able to eat my fucking sandwich” He muttered before turning around to catch up with Shawn.

Nania part 1

2010-02-28T18:21:00.000-08:00

A story based on a crude lulz idea of replacing NARNIA with NANIA, as in OLD PEOPLE. LOLOLROFLROFLLLLL.......enjoy.

Rain battered the windows as the few small candles punched through the inky black of the living room. A lone figure sat on a sofa, his face illuminated by the light of his laptop screen as he looked around the room and rolled his eyes.
“Sodding power cuts” Eric sighed whilst rolling his eyes
Thumping, banging, the footsteps of an excited child running downstairs to open presents on Christmas morning, but slightly more ominous, as if instead of being greeted by presents the child was instead greeted by a corpse...or Courtney love. The door was kicked open and a slightly twitchy individual leaped in and began waving his arms.
“ERIC! HOLY CRAP YOU WON’T BELIEVE IT!”
“AHH!” Eric gasped...but not like he was majorly shocked, kind of like he was...slightly bemused and taken back. Yeah, that.
“Shawn, what is it?”
“There’s no time to explain! You need-“ Shawn cut himself off and raised an eyebrow, pointing to the sight before him.
“What are you doing Eric?”
“I was about to watch Dawn of the Dead on my laptop...whilst eating a tuna sandwich”
Shawn shook his head and began counting on his hand.
“Ok firstly, Dawn of the dead is a 2 hour movie, that sandwhich won’t last the entire movie. Secondly you are 22 years old on and sat by yourself on a Saturday night. Thirdly, You simply need to come with me upstairs”
Eric rolled his eyes and sighed, this was the second time in a minute, this was not a good sign.
“Ok, firstly...you’re an idiot. Secondly, it’s Saturday and you’re running about like a...like a...Crystal Meth Chimp! And thirdly, and I stress this, WHY?”
“I don’t have the adjectives nor mind altering drugs to explain but it’s to do with the new wardrobe!”
“Oh dear god stay away from it! You destroyed the last one!”
“No I didn’t” Shawn was taken aback, and seemed shocked.
“You did! You put fireworks in it and blew it up!” Eric spat out
“No...no I didn’t”
“You did!” Eric rose and began stabbing his finger with each other word “You bought some fireworks. You put them the in the wardrobe for ‘storing’. And then it conveniently was set aflame two hours later!”
“Woah hooo there, easy. You asked me if I was going to blow it up and I said ‘no, no I am not’. Ok there’s my proof”
Eric had now moved on to waving his hands about, he was serious folks. SERIOUS, like those capital letters I just typed.
“You said that and then winked at me! And the next day you improvised a song all about blowing up wardrobes whilst eating breakfast!”
Shawn shrugged and put his hand on Eric’s shoulder.
“That’s all in the past, I got a new one anyway from that sinister market by IKEA. Just come upstairs ok, I need to show you this”
Eric sighed and rubbed his eyes.
“Fine...ok”

They began to walk upstairs to the room in which the wardrobe was kept, the room had other things in, but they’re not important enough to be described at all.
“Why didn’t you just go to IKEA?” Eric enquired
Shawn gave a passive shrug
“I don’t like the Swedes”.
They pushed the door open and Eric forced a candle in, illuminating the grand behemoth of a wardrobe that had taken residence at the back of the room. Crescents, twirls and all manner of shapes were carved into the front and the ornate gold handles were brighter than the fire which revealed them. Shawn stood in front of it and pulled it open, he turned back to Eric.
“Ok right, I was inside here like 5 minutes ago-“
Eric raised his eyebrows.
“Wait wait wait...so you assumed that the best time to venture into a wardrobe was during a power cut?”
Shawn’s eyes widened and he nodded his head sincerely.
“Yeah” he said with no sense of irony. “Anyway, I went in and it never ended, and I thought maybe that was the original design plan, but then I emerged in a snowy forest! I came back to tell you and also update my facebook status about it!
Third time’s a charm, Eric sighed and rolled his eyes.
“I don’t believe you. I honestly don’t at all. I mean seriously. Probably because you’ve used the word ‘emerged’, a word far removed from your usual lexis. Also because that is exactly the plot of The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe”
Shawn got a bit irked.
“Eric, listen to me. This isn’t some stupid prank, I’m deadly serious, now get in here or I will punch you in the face; and then another time.”
HOME RUN! Eric sighed and BLA BLA BLA BLA, we get it, character traits and all that. He honestly couldn’t be bothered arguing so he figured he may as well go along with it, plus if he didn’t it’d be a pretty bland story wouldn’t it readers? Ooh I just addressed you all as ‘readers’, I feel just like The Beano.
They stepped into the wardrobe and took a step forward, nothing stopped them so they took some more into the black, like a subway tunnel. After a few seconds a light was almost visible, before suddenly widening as they walked some more. A chill suddenly pricked Eric’s arm and he felt snow crunch beneath him, they were in a forest, a snowy forest, the kind of forest you’d see in a 80s U2 video. Seriously, go YouTube ‘new year’s day’ to see for yourself, it will do far more than my pithy assortment of metaphors can.
“Well” Eric Began “I’m fucking shocked”
That was all that needed to be said. Shawn grinned and walked forward.
“Told you, come on let’s see what’s up ahead”
They sped forward through the snow, the trees shadowing them from the bright white sky, Eric stopped, there was a wooden sign in front of them, with letters in an old sophisticated font.
“What does it say?” asked Shawn
Eric peered at the sign, the font was almost unintelligible, as if written by a drunkard or Abu Hamza.
“It says ‘welcome to NANIA”
“Nania? Don’t you mean Narnia?”
“No...It says Nania; they probably changed it for copyright reasons. Also there’s writing underneath, it says ‘no cyclicists allowed’.
Sounds, voices even, in the distance. They became louder and louder, until a few figures suddenly emerged from the woods. Eric turned to Shawn
“Oh wow...they’re all-“
“Old people. OH!! I guess that explains NANIA, haha, that’s kind of clever if you think about it”
They were in fact all old people yes, wearing as many layers as possible, and being friendly yet highly suspicious of everybody. One of them walked forward, a small old lady, she spoke.
“Hello there you two, welcome to Nania”

One is the loneliest number....but only because Two and Three are such dicks about it.

2010-02-16T11:02:00.000-08:00

I wrote this a while ago and was sort of, holding back from posting it as some people may just view it as a dejected bitter rant hating anything to do with 'happiness and love'. It most certainly isn't, it's me standing up for people I know who are often trodden on and ignored, this is for you delightful folks.

Imagine if you had no arms or legs, no limbs whatsoever, you couldn’t help this; you were simply created that way, born into a sad little life where all you could contribute was being a makeshift coffee table or a poof. Are you in the mind of limbless potato person? Good, now imagine you often get wheeled out into town on the back of a wagon or something and you see all the bipedal limbed folk out dancing doing their daily routine, just jumping about and dancing and whatnot. This is obviously going to upset poor stump boy, no argument here. NO ARGUMENT I SAY! Now imagine if a lot of people go in front of stumpy boy (or stump woman, metaphors are not sexist here) and do various acrobatic manoeuvres right in front of his face, back flips, skipping, the conga, all with full knowledge of stumpy person’s sad lifestyle of being essentially a human paperweight. To me this is what public displays of affection are like if you’re awkward, introvert or a not as-cool-as-everybody-else-like-totally individual. You simply lay slack-jawed and shocked as these overt generic selfish bastardos gleefully flaunted their social status and general attractiveness with all the overt theatrics, genericism, and over the top ‘bullshit’ emotional attitude that modern society somehow deems acceptable and, depressingly enough, necessary. It’s apparently necessary to wear your love life and sexual status on your sleeve like some arrogant scarlet letter whilst declaring it to the world with all the vigour and ignorance of a religious zealot on the high street. And as stumpy you simply had to stand there and take it...well, sit there....lie there...STAY there. You simply have to take all this brash forwardness and almost spiteful behaviour, because if you were to be upset or annoyed and succumb to, EMOTIONS AND DAMN HUMANITY, you’ll be labelled as ‘depressing’ and ‘irritating’, all the while wanting to lash out and strangle these bastards. But you can’t because you’ve got no arms...freak stump boy you are.
This elongated smack to the face of a metaphor is essentially how I feel about public displays of affection, the bitter lonely curmudgeon I am. I’m not referring to hand-holding or the sort, I mean the full on acts that if done in public in the 16th century would probably have gotten you dismembered, I’ve been in groups of people where a couple have pretty much done all 4 bases and then go round for another game, (Urgh, crass terminology there I know) all whilst ignoring the awkward and quite offended reactions of their friends around them. People whose sentences usually consist of their love lives or feel that everybody in the immediate surrounding area needs to know all about their sex lives as if it’s information on par with John Lennon getting shot or a plague of mole people about to rise up and enslave humanity, with small pockets of human resistance fighting back these subterranean flea-riddled overlords. (But that’s enough about the south! HAHAHA! OH SNAP!!!! HAHAHA! FEEL MY PRIDE FOR MY GEOGRAPHICAL LOCATION!!....anyway).
I’m not against the whole notion of relationships and admiration, very much the opposite. What I am against is those who flaunt it like their some sort of fucking deity, making less-successful people feel quite bad about themselves, the sort of people who aren’t as confident or appealing as most fellows. I’m rooting for you, you hapless losers. (I’m allowed to say that). And why on earth do people get irate and tell these people to ‘stop being depressing’ ‘cheer up’ as if we’re a liability and only putting this on, that we have some instant joyous-switch like some melancholy robotic bastard child, I’ve noticed that some people aren’t helped when friends dismiss them or berate them for feeling lousy, this also probably isn’t helped by the fact a small minority of people flaunt their ‘happiness’ in their faces like completely ignorant fuckbuckets. The fact these people are content and satisfied is terrific, but no right to lord over those who aren’t as lucky or act better than them. Even Hitler had a girlfriend....I know that might work against me as well, but sod it, I like that insult.
There are also the folks who complain about stuff to people that hardly compare or are beyond ignorant, like going up to a crippled person and saying your legs itch. What’s that? You have to get up early on Valentine’s Day to spend the day together? Fuck off, I call Valentine’s Day ‘Thursday’, I think that shows who has the bigger right to complain here. Know what else is fun? Complaining about how much of a dickhead your ex was to somebody who has feelings for you, yet you won’t give them any chance whatsoever. Yeah that’s terrific for them isn’t it, tell them that somebody who you actually went out with was a complete utter fuckpot, it sure won’t make them feel in anyway depressed nor self loathing at how they’re apparently not as good as that. Whilst you’re there list the amount of guys you’ve ‘gotten with’ and lament the fact that ‘nice men’ are as hard to find as the holy fucking grail. I’ve never understood this myself, when I’m nice I come across as being a ‘friend’ whilst when I try to pull of this attractive confident dickhead routine I come across as...well a dickhead, no gimmicks here.

To me, being single for a very long time is almost like being Charlie in ‘Charlie in the Chocolate factory’, whilst everybody else lives in houses and with reasonable wealth, you’re stuck in some crammed turgid shack devoid of any hope and joy, instead replaced with general melancholy and mild racist ramblings from the legions of elderly cramped in one bed. I wondered why Charlie’s family didn’t simply kill the elderly relatives and consume them, I mean they obviously contributed nothing and spent all day confined to a bed, this would be a release from their depressing useless lives, and for a few months it’d stop the rest of the family living on a soup made of splinters, old beano issues and their own sweat and blood. But...that’s just me, which may explain my lack of relationships and BACK TO THIS ARTICLE! WOAH! SEE THAT?! Trippy right?! A total 360 there you shocked person you, fear my literary genius...
Anyway, in defence of all those hapless, shy, awkward individuals I say to the minority of you who I’ve spent the past 800 words ranting about (the rest of you are fine, have a collective high five or celebratory salsa) this.
We don’t care for a list of unusual places where you’ve had sex in a conversation where it serves no context whatsoever. We don’t care how you ‘love each other for life’ because you’ve simply confused it for lust towards the first individual to smother your mouth like a starving vampire. We don’t care for photos of you ‘getting off’ with your retard farmhand of a significant other. We don’t care if you haven’t seen each other for 29 hours. We don’t care if it’s your 5th month anniversary or any other fucking arbitrary date as if you’re the ‘rain man’ of relationship statistics. We don’t care for a list of why you love each other more than oxygen. We don’t care for you subtly asking us what we’re doing so you can reply with how amazing your day will be. We don’t care for you making a child when we’re trying to talk to you. We don’t care for the sheer contempt you may show on others. We don’t care for your numerous facebook albums that you parade in our face of you on the verge of fucking like lustful morons. We don’t care at all...seriously, but hey. What the fuck do I know right?

Shattered dreams

2010-01-27T10:08:00.000-08:00

Chocolate rain on your parade

2010-01-21T10:39:00.000-08:00

PANIC! RUN FOR YOUR VERY LIVES! ROLL OUT THE CAPRET FOR THE FOUR HORSEMEN! It’s the pinnacle of existence and the world is teetering forward into the pitch black abyss of nigh annihilation and tortured despair! Whatever shall we- Wait? What? That’s it? That’s all that has happened? All this bother and fuss is over.....Cadbury being bought over? That’s it? A chocolate company has been bought by the second largest candy, food, and beverage Company in the world? Surely that’s...well good isn’t it? But no, for some reason patriotism has suddenly emerged in anybody who’s ever had a curly Wurly as if it were embodied by Richard the bloody Lion-heart.
I honestly don’t get what all this outrage is about, nobody is losing their job (Else Cadbury wouldn’t have accepted the offer you blithering idiots) and the food isn’t being removed, you’re still going to be able to gorge yourself and take away your lifespan with Dairy Milks and Bournevilles, you don’t buy one of the most successful companies in a country and discontinue everything that made it what it is, it’s pretty much the opposite of business management, along with exploding shoes and a sequel to ‘White Chicks’. If people would all take their head out of the collective arse and look at this for a second, they might see the shiny bewildering possibilities as a result of this. One being more food available, and as humans we should flock to this idea like delighted and whimsical folks. You know every time you go to America and come back, lecturing us with ‘how varied and amazing and cool and super mega awesome’ the food is, describing it like treasures beyond our primitive hut-dwelling, porridge eating society, almost as if you’ve discovered fire, if fire lowered your lifespan dramatically....even though it technically can...but that’s beyond the point. Kraft are going to use Cadbury as an outlet for their products that sell so highly throughout the rest of the world, I’m looking forward to seeing what new foodstuffs I can negligently stock up in case of a nuclear outbreak, forgoing spam and corned beef for whatever piques my pithy interest.
You know Oreos? Those biscuits that everybody faffs about with instead of simply eating (IT’S A BISCUIT NOT A DAMN RUBIX CUBE), guess who owns them?
Yes, it’s the harbingers of doom and despair, Kraft, what’s that? You enjoy Oreos and are ignorantly aware of the irony of you rallying against a company who bought you them?
I suspected as much, as I’m a poor man’s Poirot.

(This is not a bloody Puzzle Piece)

What seems to be possibly the main gripe here is that ‘CADBURYS IS BRITISH AND THEY IS TAKING US OVER!!’ which whilst being stupid is also stupid....not to mention stupid.
Nobody seems to give a toss when football teams such as Arsenal and Leeds are populated predominantly by players who aren’t even English, let alone able to speak the language properly or have a name I can pronounce. Nor do people care about driving Hyundais instead of Jaguars, Jeeps instead of land rovers or American Bikes instead of bloody penny farthings, whilst our culture is dominated by American TV, stars, news, and music. Christ, the Black eyed peas are on par to have had more number ones than Queen or The Rolling stones, well respected and renowned British musicians, where was all this fucking British Pride when these tedious talentless fartbags were invading the British shores?
Then there’s the Facebook group, the small rabble of resistance fighters against the totalitarian crushing regime of the Kraft Empire, like a culinary bloody Star Wars. As if Facebook has done anything for the world but make sex offenders do less exercise, there’s this blathering ‘OH BUT WE GOT WISPA BAAAACK!! WISPA!! WISPAAAA YARGH!!’.
Yes that may be true, but bear in mind this was an individual chocolate bar not a £11.5 billion economic takeover, they’re not going to care for this Facebook group as they clearly would have heard the remarks made when they ANNOUNCED they were going to try and buy Cadbury, these groups are just trying to close the barn door after horse has already bolted, changed his identity and murdered the farmer.
Pithy arguments and ironic logic isn’t going to stop this, and this isn’t some major catastrophe that it’s being painted out to be, this will IN NO WAY negatively affect your life in any way possible, unless you get off on saying ‘Cadbury’, in which case you can do that on your own...weirdo.
I’m usually a cynical person I know, but I honestly see no harm in this whatsoever, in fact it has more opportunities for new food and products being available, which in today’s society you assume would be a good thing. I have no problem saying ‘KRAFT’ and it’s not as if they’re going to change the names of food to over the top Americanised monikers, a dairy milk won’t become a ‘AWESOME BAR’, a boost a ‘EXPLOSION WE SAVE YOUR ASS IN WORLD WAR TWO SNACK’ nor will a curly wurly become a ‘FUCKING MORON IN OFFICE FOR 8 YEARS’. It’s not as if we always say ‘Cadbury’ before the word anyway, they’re well enough established to lose any gimmicks.
Hell, I’m sure life would be 6% more interesting if people asked for an ‘Explosion bar’ anyway.

I am man, hear me complain.

2009-12-02T06:59:00.001-08:00

I hate Macho men. I hate them to the point I want a small asteroid to hit them in the face, obliterating it till it ironically resembles a giant vagina. And wherever they’ll go a huge parade of irony will follow them like a cartoon raincloud reminding them how incredibly ignorant and borderline pathetic they are. LOOK KIDS, ITS VAGINA FACE MAN!! Let’s laugh and throw rotten courgettes like he’s a leper, although one who enjoys Nickelback and finding convenient opportunities to remove his shirt. It’ll be like The Elephant man for people who have the ability to appreciate more aspects of life than proclaiming to the world you have a penis; probably a small one that needs to wee all the time. Take my petty wrath you self- conceited cabbage men you. And hopefully other macho men will uncontrollably try to fornicate with the face of said monstrosity, delicious Irony...mmm.
There are certain things that men aren’t allowed to do apparently, certain acts or opinions that somehow parallel the intellectually butchered thought processes of Idi Amin or Charles Manson.
What’s that rationally open intellectual male, you enjoy the works of Joni Mitchell or Annie Lennox?! But they don’t have wee-pipes! YOU’RE NOT A REAL MAN!! These feeble minded cries of ‘injustice’ are usually followed by, what has pretty much become a stock insult, ‘hand in your man card’. As if you’re Dirty Harry being asked to give in your gun and badge because you ‘don’t play by the book’. Well sod books and reading for that matter, (ironically often used by Macho men, unless it’s NUTS. Sports AND bewbs?! Truly an elysian fields of testosterone)
You like female musicians? HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!
You don’t drink beeer? HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!
You don’t furiously masturbate to the sight of 11 overpaid Neanderthals kicking a ball like children in the Middle Ages did with a cabbage?! HAND IN YOUR MAN CARD!! YARGHHHH ETC
Sod your man card; I’ll be here learning how to count beyond 10 without the aid of a popup book. As I’m writing this I’m currently eating salt and vinegar crisps and listening to Thin Lizzy singing, SHOCK HORROR, a love song. Better retain my credibility and punch a stranger before my testicles shrink like oranges exposed to radiation. I’m pretty much a very awkward male, I can’t run a few meters without passing out and I’ve pretty much gathered I’m as attractive as an Autopsy footage, but at least I can appreciate things more evenly regardless of gender, intelligence or the amount of ‘EXPLOSHUNS’ involved. I’ve pretty much convinced myself the only chance of me getting a wife is if I have her shipped overseas and taught English from a crude cassette tape.
And while I’m here in your head, I also despise those soft-spoken ‘good looking’ men, those indie landfill farts, those smug pretentious bastards, those women-stealing, somehow irresistible flesh wastes. The guys who wear a Revolver shirt yet have never heard of Paul McCartney, the self-conceited mopes who never remove a scarf, as if they’re a post-op trying to hide her bulging Adam’s apple, the smooth talking arseholes who wear brown trench coats inside as if they’re in an S.S tribute band. Yeah, those pillocks. Somehow women find this irresistible, as if these idiots can mentally latch onto their ovaries like some crude ‘cronenberg’-esque perversion. Everything they do is to get women or because they love themselves more than Narcissus in a room full of mirrors and portraits of his arse. It’s sadly sets the stereotype of ‘pretty face over anything resembling a decent personality’ that women are often accused of. Eventually women will realise how hollow these men are and ditch them once they see them for the smug Easter-eggs they are. And then who’ll they come running to??! WHO I ASK?!...
...Not us in any bloody way, but the tossers at the start of the article. Because this world is a cold and tepid place where mediocrity thrives...only tuna sandwiches and Def Leppard redeem us.
I am man, hear me complain.

"My rant: The true story"

2009-11-16T06:59:00.000-08:00

Keith Richards has an autobiography planned for release in 2010, now that as a statement might seem very unsurprising, one that makes you say ‘Oh right, cool’ but nothing to make you stand up and pay attention like a meteor about to collide with the planet. But, when you look at other autobiographies on the shelves, and the current trend surrounding them, then the fact Keith is releasing his next year is a monumental shock when compared to the current tepid and mostly pointless releases that cram up the shelves. For starters, Keith is a man whose blood system consists of 80% Columbian export, Zeus knows how he’s going to even remember what happened 20 years ago, let alone last Saturday; I won’t be surprised if the book is essentially one page consisting of
“40 years ago I wrote some songs with Mick...I played a Pirate...I think it was a Pirate...yeah, definitely was a Pirate. Then I wrote this...I sure do love drugs, yes I do”
Keith is the sort of person destined to write an autobiography, because he’s essentially bursting at the leathery seams with highly interesting and fascinating anecdotes, although it’s likely he’s got far more brilliant ones that have been lost in the haze of inhaling things other than ‘Vic’. The shelves are currently host to books by reality TV stars and pointless attention whoring morons, and occasionally somebody of note will pop up amidst the ‘Chantelles’ and the ‘Hiltons’, such as Julie Walters or Michel Parkinson, but it’s very rare and far too few, like finding a skittle in a mountain of lard. The fact people honestly read these books is just dumbfounding, I highly doubt that Chantelle from BB had an early life chock full of zany exploits and armchair gripping tension, unless at some point during her teens she was enlisted to fight a war against a subterranean race of Lizard people. They usually consist of 50 pages smeared in generic social trite and scum that most people have either experienced or know somebody who has, such epic page turners along the lines of “OH I HAD A HARD LIFE WITHOUT A BOYFRIEND” “MY JOB AT MCDONALDS WAS AN AUSCWHITZ OF CONSUMERISM”, those old chestnuts, whereas Parkinson has in depth recollections of his friendship with Muhammad Ali, whilst Richards will undoubtedly have some wonderfully revealing stories of some of the best known musicians of the 20th century. It’s as if people read these ‘I actually think people care’ autobiographies to make themselves feel better about their own lives, be it a tedious job or an unfortunate lacklustre social life; by reading books by people such as Jodie Marsh you can at least feel far more intelligent and a better person, simply for guessing how many times she used spell-check on each page alone. It’s like a Victorian gentleman kicking the shins of a shoeshine boy before beating him with his cane, although for a tenner, and it makes you realise that anybody could publish an autobiography and slap ‘MY STORY’ on the end, that’s right even you! GO NOW! WRITE A BOOK! It’ll no doubt enter the top 10 because our current society is nothing more than celebrity hungry amoebas, stripped of any rationality or sanity!
That’s another thing that irks me, the “My Story” tagline, as if we had no idea that a book featuring the punch-worthy mug of Pete from BB would be about him, but we assumed it’d be 200 pages of dirty limericks and a crude retelling of Morgan Freeman’s rise to fame, before descending into wacked out conspiracy theories with titles along the lines of ‘CRACKERS, ALIEN BOG ROLL?’, thanks for patronising us Pete from BB...you idiotic lout. Another ‘shocker’ about Keith’s autobiography, alongside Parkinson and a small minority is that they’re releasing them long after middle age has come and gone, Keith will be 66 when his book hits shelves, so that’s pretty much 50+ years of his life in this book, what a damn autobiography should be. Katie Price is 31, and has so far released 3 autobiographies, THREE; she’s pretty much beaten the meaning with a large rod and set it alight. That’s probably one for each boob (The third is Peter Andre. HAW HAW), and at a rate of one every 2 years it’s going to rival Dan Brown for ‘Book that makes my brain physically hurt every couple of years’. Every 2 years, that’s just ridiculous, it’s a BIOGRAPHY OF HER LIFE not a bloody horror franchise, although....
No, easy jokes later. But yes...I’ve sort of lost track of where I was heading toward now, oh bugger. I blame Jordan and all the other self obsessed cesspools of image over talent...
I was going to end this with a predictable joke about me going back to writing my autobiography, but I’ll save that for my second rant about the same damn thing in 2 years.

Clubbing

2009-11-01T13:41:00.000-08:00

A short piece I wrote for my Creative Writing coursework, based on a fictional character during an awkward situation.
This is essentially how I feel about said subject, and the events are pieced together from various 'excursions'....

We opened the door and I knew immediately I wasn’t going to enjoy this night, I didn’t know why exactly but I knew I wasn’t going to be enthralled for the next 3 hours, perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of this place and the feeling of dread on par with somebody running at you with a samurai sword and a disgruntled expression or hearing the words ‘now on BBC one, the ONE SHOW”. I’d done it, something I particularly never liked the look of or appealed to me, I’d been dragged clubbing, forced even! With trite excuses and a large amount of guilt tripping along the lines of ‘it’s my birthday, you’ve got to come!’ I was coerced into either going or being viewed as some sort of social misanthrope who refused to comply with the wishes of somebody on their birthday, in this day and age that’s on par with shooting the person in the knees apparently. I should have tweaked that I wasn’t going to enjoy this when I saw the mass of people queuing outside; for the record, the only thing I’m willing to queue for is Thunder Mountain at Disneyland or a booth to hurl chip fat at David Cameron. One of my friends re-assured me that this large amount of people meant quality, I recall him in the queue trying to get me interested.
“Come on Damien, loads of people are queuing outside, it must be good!”
“You could say that about Nazi polling booths or tickets for Girls Aloud”
I fell on deaf ears as my 5 other friends queued up anyway, reluctantly I followed suit. After about 10 minutes of queuing we finally made it to the front and all my friends were let in, as they neared the door a hand pushed in front of me and one of the bouncers spoke in a low, generically gruff voice.
“Sorry mate I’ll need to see some I.D”
Bull-honky. I clearly looked over 18, it was because I was wearing jeans and a Thin Lizzy shirt; I was being discriminated against because I wasn’t dressed like a French working girl or a member of Spandau Ballet. I fumbled around in my wallet whilst doing my best to mumble under my breath irately in a form of pithy rebellion; after shoving my I.D in his face he nodded and I rejoined my friends. One of them pushed the front doors open, bringing me back to the first sentence, I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy this in the slightest; about a hundred people were all confined to the dance floor, hardly any space between them all as they attempted to ‘dance’, this consisted of girls pretending to pole dance and the men throwing up gang symbols whilst rooted to the spot. I turned to my friends.
“I’m getting a drink”
“WHAT?” Holly motioned with her hand by her ear; the music was louder than I’d thought, even though it seemed to be just below ‘battle of the Somme’. I made a crude drinking motion and walked to the bar and was greeted by a cheery blonde barmaid.
“Hey can I help you?” She smiled, it seemed pretty fake.
“Umm, Oh, just a coke please” I blurted it out like a social cripple asking somebody on a date, I figured I’d rather be sober and have my wits about me at this place; seeing as everybody else was pretty much drunk like a priest at an orphanage, it’d give me some small moral victory. The barmaid returned after a minute or so and laid a small glass in front of me.
“That’ll be Two fifty please”
“Oh I’m sorry, I ordered a coke”
“Yeah...it’s two fifty” her expression became one of exasperation as she mentally assumed I was an idiot.
“Two fifty?! I ordered a coke not shares in Disney”
“Hey It’s a club, what do you expect?”
“You’ve got me there”
I grabbed my overpriced fizzy pop and spun around, my stomach lurched a little bit. My friends were gone; they’d completely vanished from their previous spot and had presumably dispersed into the crowd. I had no intention of standing at the bar by myself like a Dad at a school disco so I decided to seize the day and charge headlong into the crowd of dancers to find them. I pushed through the crowd for about 15 minutes, muttering “Excuse me” and “Sorry” to everybody I nudged, which in this environment was ALL OF THEM. Half way across something latched onto my arm, I spun around and was confronted with a girl who’d obviously had far too much to drink; she’d obviously just turned 18 and was relishing the chance to replace her blood content with vodka. She gripped at my shirt with all the intensity of somebody having a fit and dragged me towards her.
“HEY! LET’S DANCE!!”
“Sorry, I’m looking for my friends”
“I can be a friend”
As much as my self esteem would have loved getting hit on by somebody far too drunk to remain upright, I passed up her offer by pretending to dance only to fall back into the crowd and disappear like a groovy ninja, spending another 10 minutes navigating the place. When I made it to the edge of the dance floor I saw what can only be described as my friend’s huddled like a batch of giggling teenage school girls.
“Hey guys, thanks for ditching me”
Totally ignoring what I’d just said, Steve, a less than intelligent, stocky friend of mine cried out
“DAMIEN! Jack’s pulled!”
“What...a muscle?”
He then grabbed my head and spun it in the direction of my friend Jack, or more importantly, the obviously intoxicated sixteen year old wrapped around his face like some crude, whorish scarf. They were kissing with all the enthusiasm of, well, two drunken strangers who shared a mutual love of having no morals. They continued this for about 5 minutes, my friends cheering with all the enthusiasm as if it was some sort Roman blood-sport, only to suddenly pull apart, whereupon Jack then whispered something in her ear. She was obviously less than delighted at what he’d said, perhaps it was her shocked expression, or her cry of “PERVERT” before flailing her arms at him and skipping off to her friends. Jack stormed over and without stopping by us walked to the door
“We’re leaving, it’s my birthday and I want to leave”
Relieved I led the charge out of this place, like X fighters triumphantly escaping from the exploding death star. It’s pretty much lines like that which show I’m not the sort of person for these places...

The Cinema Experience

2009-11-01T11:49:00.001-08:00

I saw the Transformers 2 movie earlier this week and thoroughly enjoyed it, as I’m a man with a penis. It had gotten a lot of bad reviews when released though, most of it aimed like a scathing longbow towards the plot....yes, in a movie consisting of giant robots beating seven shades of crap out of each other, people expected a plot. This is (apart from missing the point more than Abu Hamza at Laser quest) extremely pithy, like complaining that Jackie Chan movies have bad acting or Porn doesn’t have brilliant mise-en-scene. It appears that society hasn’t progressed to the p oint of a collective intelligence where people can assume a movie a) Based on a rocking awesome 80s cartoon b) By Michael Bay, has a plot that doesn’t measure up to whatever neurotic relationship-crisis farce Woody Allen is vomiting out. ANYWAY, before the movie started there was the expected advert warning people not to record the movie on their phones, as it’s a criminal offense apparently on par with murdering a family and eating their innards whilst pissing on the Queen. I say let people record the movie on a tiny, low quality, tinny sounding fart of a machine that essentially simulates the effect of watching TV whilst banging your head on an anvil; in fact, the government should have a special branch dedicated to recording the most recent movies on a crappy Japanese phone before uploading them to a legally appointed site. Want to know why? Because people will watch them at home, idiots mostly, massive DNA abusing idiots will watch these movies. And because of this, it means these idiots will not be at the cinema when we decent folk want to see these movies, think of it; no imbecilic teenagers shouting terrible insults at the screen, no rustling of food, no beeping of sodding phones, no prick at the front who does some ‘ironic’ dance when ‘The final countdown’ plays in an advert and assumes he’s the funniest man in the history of the entire bloody world, whilst everybody else wants to stab him with crude shives fashioned from a bag of revels. (This is silly, as everybody knows they’d make a much better suffocation device). By taking these people out of cinemas I reckon the enjoyment level rise by at least 38%, and while we’re at it let’s get rid of adverts all right? This is simply out of a form of impatience in all honesty; I’ve paid £5 to see a movie, not sit through 20 minutes of shameless corporate whoring that I get on TV/The Internet/sides of busses/ some man carve into my arm in the street. In fact this is probably counterproductive for the companies; imagine being at a Morrisons or something and browsing for well, food obviously, you go to grab some Bertolli olive oil only to suddenly have your brain scream like a madman “Wait a minute, this was a 3 minute advert at the cinema, delaying the arrival of that wacky yet quasi emotional Judd Apatow movie I paid to see!! SOD OFF BERTOLLI! I’M GETTING CLOVER! THEIR ADVERTS MAY BE RIDICULOUS TO THE POINT OF SELF MOCKERY AND EMOTIONAL BLUDGEONING BUT AT LEAST THEY DON’T PLASTER THEM ALL OVER THE SCREEN AT THE CINEMA!! So yeah, morons and adverts, let’s do our best to eradicate these from the cinema experience like some foul pestilent little cockroaches.

Also Transformers 2 is bloody terrific.

Procastination has many forms....

2009-10-27T14:38:00.000-07:00

2009-10-19T08:33:00.000-07:00

Yippee Ki Yay......

G-ALGORE-LACTUS

2009-10-19T03:38:00.000-07:00

His true intention...
Fantastic four where are you!?

WEAK being the word of choice

2009-10-19T03:27:00.000-07:00

As a sane person, I don’t see why people enjoy game-shows, seeing as it’s essentially watching somebody win unthinkingly large amounts of money doing some kitsch and ‘wacky’ question based entertainment, and I’m sure most people don’t enjoy seeing somebody else getting ‘LODES OF MUNEY’, which begs the question of why on earth loads of people watch this shows. The answer probably lies in the fact that for every winner, there’s usually 9 or 10 grubby little people who all fail miserably and go home with nothing but a crushing sense of low self esteem and an incentive to beat the cat, HA!TAKE THAT YOU IDIOTS! YOU FALL SHORT OF LIFE!
That or there’s nothing else on around 5.15, which is pretty much when ‘The Weakest Link’ barges into your living room, stubs a cigarette on your hand and precedes to make you its bitch for the next 45 minutes whilst you plead with it to take its heel off your neck. It’s been around for years now so I’m not going to explain how it works, it’s simply another ‘off the production rack’ style game show but with one deliciously vindictive twist. The players each vote for who they think should be kicked off at the end of every round, usually for reasons such as being a giant fetid moron or being more of a giant fetid moron than the other similar morons who populate this crude little game board of tedium. You may be saying “But Pete, they’re not idiots cause they is on a game show”, to which I say stop it because I can’t hear you; but yes, this isn’t entirely true, each episode usually has one or two likeable contestants with intelligence and charm who generally come across as interesting human beings. Unfortunately these thespian-esque Spartans are outnumbered by the rampaging hordes of dull, narcissistic idiocy of the Persian Army that is the other contestants. Watch this show and you’ll find yourself yelling at your TV as if it had just come alive and shat on the carpet; “HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW THAT!?” Is usually the common phrase hurled as these blockheaded dope-monkeys assume that ‘Dolly Parton was made an honouree Canadian mounty’ or Charles Dickens wrote the classic ‘Grey ex-spectators’, it makes you lose a small amount of hope in society, more so because it’s these feckless fools who usually always win.

The show is run by question master and occasional member of the Third Reich, Anne Robinson, a human being so grotesque and devoid of humanity it’s as if the Ebola virus had taken up host in a mannequin. Robinson is essentially 90% plastic and is what I imagine Peter Cushing would look like if he opened the ark of the covenant, only to have it closed half way through as his jaw began to unhinge and melt like a tan crayola crayon. In short, she’s a completely repugnant individual, sort of like a Nazi dipped in sulphur. During the show Robinson will probe the guests about their jobs, personal life, hobbies, amount of people they’ve murdered, essentially anything that she can use as a basis for some crude snarky comment. If you’re gay, unemployed or single then she’ll essentially come at you with all the tact and subtlety of a KKK member, you begin to wander why she doesn’t just drop the acid tongued insults and simply claw each of the guests across both eyes before each round before throwing a bucket of pigs blood on them to the sound of her own shrill laughter. Unsurprisingly Robinson is also a vocal supporter for Fox Hunting, just to re-iterate that she is in fact a colossal conceited arse.
So the show begins and we’re introduced to our hapless contestants, the unequivocally camp one, the sassy middle aged woman, the smug pretentious leering idiot and a decent human being, usually in the form of an elderly gentleman called John who is retired from his job of being a children’s entertainer or feeding candy floss to sheep whilst playing a harp, something fuzzy and cuddly like that. Anyway round one begins with the easy questions and usually the contestants get £1000 the first round. They’ll vote off whichever hapless sod was the slowest to answer, nothing personal yet, just observational tactics. As the rounds progress though, the voting usually becomes borderline tastelessness along the lines of “She’s too old” “She voted for me before” or “His shirt is so last year”, it’s essentially just a year 10 playground full of tweed shirts and smug pretentious tossers. There’s a short interview with each miserable failure after they’re voted out, usually them making some “I enjoyed the show” bull-honky or a suggestive pun regarding Anne “Oh if Anne ever wants to come down to my restaurant I’ll give her a good table laying”, the sort of comments that essentially make you vomit blood.
So we’re down to the final two, friendly charming John and DNA wasting amoeba twenty year old who’s got by on ungodly amounts of luck regardless of a lack of frontal lobe. Five questions each, John’s first question “In which year did Napoleon invade Italy?” COME ON JOHN!!! YES! Take that society! Right, first question for the flesh covered broom handle, “What animal is Mickey mouse?” OH COME ON!! ARGH! This continues until they both have 4 points each, John’s final question “1580 AD would have been part of which ancient Chinese Dynasty??” NOOOOO! Never mind John, Stooge boy is going to get a hell of a question next.
“What is a sock?”

Sod this...put countdown on.