Alright, I know I said I was gonna write something today but I’ve been out instead so this is just something short. Man, it’s twenty past four as I’m writing this and if I hadn’t said I’d be back I’d definitely be asleep already. But I can’t let you assholes down can I?
Ok, I don’t know if there are any nightclub DJs out there reading this but if there are - you have got to stop playing “I’m On A Boat” in your fucking nightclub. And if any of you are nightclub patrons - stop dancing to it, stop signing along to it, in fact stop knowing the fucking words to it. Where did this even come from man? Alright, the video was pretty funny the first time but that was a comedy video; there’s no excuse to play it in the nightclub and there is absolutely no excuse for motherfuckers knowing the words and singing along. It’s stupid as hell. And if you’re thinking “Luke wtf lol, it’s just a song and it’s pretty catchy and everything, can’t I just enjoy it if I’m out in the nightclub?” you can if you’re a total moron. It needs the fucking video to work. Plus there are literally thousands of other throwaway, catchy, poppy hip-hop tracks that are tenfold more appropriate to a nightclub environment. What about “Slide Along Side” by Shifty Shellshock? Or “It Doesn’t Matter” by Wyclef Jean feat. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson? ...Singing along to “I’m On A Boat,” don’t you have any dignity at all?
You people honestly make me fucking sick. You probably all own Tenacious D records and listen to them regularly and think Will Ferrell is the funniest fucking guy who ever lived. Fuck off.
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Monday, 15 February 2010
I'm Luke McGinty, And That's Why I Drink
Well ladies, how was it? You know what I’m talking about. Did anybody get unsatisfactorily boned by some Phones4U-haired dolt who reckons a fancy, ideas above his station meal out entitles him to grope ineptly at you and slobber for all of about five minutes? Or are you part of the Notebook DVD, pissed on red wine, weeping into your Haagen-Dazs set? Either way, I truly do not care. I shouldn’t have to tell you people how much bullshit Valentine’s Day is so we’re not going to bother with it. Instead, we’re talking about a subject much more appropriate to your poor unfortunate narrator’s situation: hangover cures! What they are, why they’re bullshit, and what they can do for you!
We’ll begin with a classic - the full cooked. This is a massive error; I think whoever decided that a full cooked was a good idea on top of your already churning gut must have been fully cooked when they came up with this gem. You’re gonna feel badly sick, the scent will haunt you and your inevitable massive shit is gonna smell horrific and be browner and stickier than the picture of Rihanna I keep under the mattress. A big dine is a necessity mind you, but you’ve got to save it til later in the day. Start with something simple, something like…
Shitting - Alright it’s not a cure per sé, but a decent shit early on always works out well. And let’s face it, most of the time you don’t have many options as far as this one’s concerned do you?
Drinking - Here’s something: in the Dark Ages people believed that if a dog bit you, the way to ward off the evil spirits (i.e. rabies) that it cursed you with was to take some of that same dog’s hair and rub it on the wound. Hence “hair of the dog.” Anyway, this can go well or it can go really sour. (I'm talking about drinking, not dog hair rubbing. That never goes well, believe me...) The important thing here is to have the mental and physical fortitude to push on through how bad you’re gonna feel during and immediately after the first couple. After that you should stop feeling hung over and start to feel pissed again. Depending on circumstances this can work in your favour or against you. The trouble is, again it’s not really a cure, more of a diversionary tactic; which is usually a good thing. If you want to feel better you have to do something to focus your attention and take your mind off the miniature oompah band who seem to be playing a sold-out residency inside your head, something like…
Wanking - Sorry to be crude, but it fucking works.
Action - Maybe you noticed a theme with the rest of the entries on the list. That’s right, none of them really work to completely cure a hangover. In my experience only one thing does, and that’s action. If you’ve got a job to go to that‘s nectar, go to work. If not, get up and do fucking anything. I mean it, set an alarm, wake up and set about yourself. Don’t mope around, don’t even consider staying in bed and you’ll feel like fucking dynamite, I promise.
Ok this is boring so it’s tangent time. I got the idea to write this when someone mentioned El Barrio to me a few days ago. El Barrio is a Mexican themed bar on Edinburgh’s prestigious Rose Street and it provided the set-up for one of the worst hangovers I’ve ever had, which commenced with me coming to in the morning naked as the day I was born, save for a neckerchief which curiously didn't feature in my night's attire. Very strange, somewhat confusing. The story of that night and morning after, though, is fucking hilarious, and is one of my favourites. Let's watch on…
So me and a few people went out and found ourselves in El Barrio and we got, not too put too fine a point on it, fucking mortal.* This was during Edinburgh’s prestigious International Festival so it was pretty busy everywhere. Erroneous, I’m just putting you in the picture. Well when we got home myself and my two friends Birdseed and Delaney suddenly realised it was imperative we immediately remove our clothes and take to the back green. The logic, if memory serves, was that it was raining. So there we were: three men in my block’s communal garden, naked and shouting at the night sky. But it doesn’t get funny until the next morning, when Delaney had to go out and tend to the potatoes he was growing out in the garden at the time . My insane neighbour, who we’ve discussed before, was out in her garden too, taking care of some sort of business. “Oh, morning Delaney. I didn’t see you there. How are you today?” she says over the fence. Now Delaney’s not keen for a conversation as you can imagine, but he’s got manners so he’s got to respond. “Not too bad. I didn’t sleep well last night so I’m afraid I’m a bit off this morning.” Here’s where the story turns. The neighbour says “I’ll tell you what, I’m in the same boat, had a terrible night’s sleep. And I had the strangest dream…” “Oh yeah?” says Delaney, beginning to worry. “Yeah, I thought I was looking out my window, and the drying green was full of people, and they were naked having a party…”
Well. Suffice to say Delaney excused himself from his potatoes and exited that scene quick-time. What a story though. Alright I am far too tired to write anything that’s in any way coherent so I’ll wrap this up.
…Alright if you insist; Valentine’s Day. Twist my arm, why don’t you? What about that scenario I mentioned earlier? That old cliché with the lonely single woman fending off her depression with high-fat content foods and sloth. I’m moved to ask the question, is that the right way to go about things? Let’s have a think about why you might be single in the first place. We’ll just brainstorm for a moment. See, if you want my advice, try making salads and mineral water your comfort foods, instead of all that ice-cream and so on. Just a thought, you might have a bit more success in the love game that way. You ugly fat bitch.
Ok, probably best if we leave it there. I’m back tomorrow.
*Here are just a few of my favourite euphemisms for drunk: singing hymns, well refreshed, done-in, sunk, cooked (or any derivatives thereof - roasted, boiled, fried, poached, well done, medium rare, char-grilled, oven-baked, pan-seared, you get the idea...)
We’ll begin with a classic - the full cooked. This is a massive error; I think whoever decided that a full cooked was a good idea on top of your already churning gut must have been fully cooked when they came up with this gem. You’re gonna feel badly sick, the scent will haunt you and your inevitable massive shit is gonna smell horrific and be browner and stickier than the picture of Rihanna I keep under the mattress. A big dine is a necessity mind you, but you’ve got to save it til later in the day. Start with something simple, something like…
Shitting - Alright it’s not a cure per sé, but a decent shit early on always works out well. And let’s face it, most of the time you don’t have many options as far as this one’s concerned do you?
Drinking - Here’s something: in the Dark Ages people believed that if a dog bit you, the way to ward off the evil spirits (i.e. rabies) that it cursed you with was to take some of that same dog’s hair and rub it on the wound. Hence “hair of the dog.” Anyway, this can go well or it can go really sour. (I'm talking about drinking, not dog hair rubbing. That never goes well, believe me...) The important thing here is to have the mental and physical fortitude to push on through how bad you’re gonna feel during and immediately after the first couple. After that you should stop feeling hung over and start to feel pissed again. Depending on circumstances this can work in your favour or against you. The trouble is, again it’s not really a cure, more of a diversionary tactic; which is usually a good thing. If you want to feel better you have to do something to focus your attention and take your mind off the miniature oompah band who seem to be playing a sold-out residency inside your head, something like…
Wanking - Sorry to be crude, but it fucking works.
Action - Maybe you noticed a theme with the rest of the entries on the list. That’s right, none of them really work to completely cure a hangover. In my experience only one thing does, and that’s action. If you’ve got a job to go to that‘s nectar, go to work. If not, get up and do fucking anything. I mean it, set an alarm, wake up and set about yourself. Don’t mope around, don’t even consider staying in bed and you’ll feel like fucking dynamite, I promise.
Ok this is boring so it’s tangent time. I got the idea to write this when someone mentioned El Barrio to me a few days ago. El Barrio is a Mexican themed bar on Edinburgh’s prestigious Rose Street and it provided the set-up for one of the worst hangovers I’ve ever had, which commenced with me coming to in the morning naked as the day I was born, save for a neckerchief which curiously didn't feature in my night's attire. Very strange, somewhat confusing. The story of that night and morning after, though, is fucking hilarious, and is one of my favourites. Let's watch on…
So me and a few people went out and found ourselves in El Barrio and we got, not too put too fine a point on it, fucking mortal.* This was during Edinburgh’s prestigious International Festival so it was pretty busy everywhere. Erroneous, I’m just putting you in the picture. Well when we got home myself and my two friends Birdseed and Delaney suddenly realised it was imperative we immediately remove our clothes and take to the back green. The logic, if memory serves, was that it was raining. So there we were: three men in my block’s communal garden, naked and shouting at the night sky. But it doesn’t get funny until the next morning, when Delaney had to go out and tend to the potatoes he was growing out in the garden at the time . My insane neighbour, who we’ve discussed before, was out in her garden too, taking care of some sort of business. “Oh, morning Delaney. I didn’t see you there. How are you today?” she says over the fence. Now Delaney’s not keen for a conversation as you can imagine, but he’s got manners so he’s got to respond. “Not too bad. I didn’t sleep well last night so I’m afraid I’m a bit off this morning.” Here’s where the story turns. The neighbour says “I’ll tell you what, I’m in the same boat, had a terrible night’s sleep. And I had the strangest dream…” “Oh yeah?” says Delaney, beginning to worry. “Yeah, I thought I was looking out my window, and the drying green was full of people, and they were naked having a party…”
Well. Suffice to say Delaney excused himself from his potatoes and exited that scene quick-time. What a story though. Alright I am far too tired to write anything that’s in any way coherent so I’ll wrap this up.
…Alright if you insist; Valentine’s Day. Twist my arm, why don’t you? What about that scenario I mentioned earlier? That old cliché with the lonely single woman fending off her depression with high-fat content foods and sloth. I’m moved to ask the question, is that the right way to go about things? Let’s have a think about why you might be single in the first place. We’ll just brainstorm for a moment. See, if you want my advice, try making salads and mineral water your comfort foods, instead of all that ice-cream and so on. Just a thought, you might have a bit more success in the love game that way. You ugly fat bitch.
Ok, probably best if we leave it there. I’m back tomorrow.
*Here are just a few of my favourite euphemisms for drunk: singing hymns, well refreshed, done-in, sunk, cooked (or any derivatives thereof - roasted, boiled, fried, poached, well done, medium rare, char-grilled, oven-baked, pan-seared, you get the idea...)
Friday, 12 February 2010
Faggotry. Rank Faggotry.
Well well well… I know it’s been a while. I don’t think I’m too hot with this whole thing; as far as I know you’re supposed to do it pretty often and all that. Whatever. But don’t think I’m running low on half-baked ideas or outrage, heavens no. I think my trouble is that I get outraged by the strangest things and my problem (it’s a problem for the whole internet actually) is that I find it hard to not be very boring or very offensive. And with that in mind, we’re going to talk about etymology and borderline homophobia. I can’t see any way this could go wrong…
Ok, the word faggot is pretty prevalent nowadays, and so, to a lesser degree, is its hugely superior derivative faggotry. Now, I can tell by your discerning choice in internet bullshit-merchants that you’re a pretty smart person so there’s no need to go into why we don’t need a word that degrades gay men or suggests that random allegations of homosexuality are grounds for offence and not bewilderment BUT…
I think certain elements of our male society have gone a bit wayward, I think they’ve lost their grip (if such a grip they ever had) on what it means to be a man. Now don’t be silly and think I’m about to tell you what that is; I don’t think anyone except Gregory Peck and possibly Chuck Ragan know “what it means to be a man” and far be it from me to try to quantify it, so instead I’m gonna talk about the kind of assholes who are just doing it wrong. Some guys are so misled in their ideas of manliness and of what’s acceptable in today’s (or any society) that they need a word, preferably a very offensive word, to describe them and their actions, a word that can transcend sexuality* and make it clear to these assholes that they need to produce a scrotum and testes quick-snap before we find our society in ruins. I believe that word is faggotry.
We start with guys who take a perverse pleasure in broadcasting their feelings in public. Have you seen facebook? A quick scout around that shitpile finds the following guy-on-girl (I'll type that again: GUY-ON-GIRL) comments (verbatim):
“happy birthday sweetness! Xxx”
“why are you so pretty [Luke‘s friend]?”
“it's because i love you [Luke‘s other friend].”
Ok let’s be reasonable, sometimes girls like to hear this shit, and a lot of the time it’s probably at least some kind of reflection on the guy’s feelings, but I have two problems; guys generally don’t, and definitely shouldn’t talk like this, and you’re talking on a fucking public forum. Have some god-damn dignity and keep it to yourself. Don’t get me wrong here, guys showing their emotions is a good thing, a healthy thing, but when you’re hamming it up for an audience and trying to play the decent guy card? That’s faggotry. Rank faggotry. (On the subject of being a “nice guy” I have a theory on how to sort decent guys from disgusting perverts; if you’re half good-looking ask him what he’d do if he was invisible for a day. If the response doesn’t involve a variation on the phrase “girls’ changing room” you’ve got yourself a pervert. Alright, I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong. The key thing here is to accept that all straight guys want to have sex with all half good-looking women, and they would all of them, to a man, spend their invisible time engaged in some sort of nefarious, boob-related activity. So the guy that admits it, he’s just being totally straight, totally honest, but the “nice guy” that says he’d, I don’t know, rescue a kitten or something [from, I assume, some bizarre scenario that calls for an invisible man, and only an invisible man…] well he’s lied. Lied to try to get you into bed. So who’s the decent guy now? Ok, enough of that, back to the matter…)
Sportsmen. Aka, rank faggotry. It’s been literally thousands of years since chest-beating was an acceptable way for the human male to attract a mate. We have civilization now, and I realise that some women are still attracted to torsos and thighs and all that, but that’s a fucking evolutionary throwback man. A guy doesn’t need that now. As long as he’s not a total fatass and he’s healthy enough to work a job that’ll pay for some slave-labourer to send food from China or wherever, he’s gonna function alright in society. Ladies, ask yourself this: when was the last time your boyfriend had to protect you from an enraged pterodactyl or hunt-gather food for you? Now try to remember the last time a rugby player engaged you in conversation about, say, the merits and demerits of a paternalistic society, or the ephemerality of the concept of victory, not just in a sporting sense, but also when viewed in the context of a cold, indifferent universe that probably doesn’t even have the ability to care about the dizzying highs and terrifying lows of the entire human experience, let alone Morgan Parra’s opinion of Ireland’s defensive style. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that if you care about sport, you care about the wrong fucking things, and subverting the need for rational self analysis, trying to balance your inadequacies, whatever they may be, with rampant narcissism, unjustifiable arrogance and the fleeting feeling of self worth brought by the abstract concept of “points?” I call that faggotry.
Ok, this is the last thing because I’ve being going too long already. Guys should never dress up to attract girls (and this works the other way too, I’m just coming at it from a man’s perspective.) Doing anything because of someone else’s expectations is always gonna pan out terribly, because it will never seem honest. What’s the difference between Against Me! and Billy X-Factor, whatever his name is? One of them is doing what they’re passionate about, doing it only for themselves, and would likely be doing it if no one told them to, and the other one’s doing what he’s told. And which one’s gonna look like an asshole in twenty years? Ok, I know no girl has ever told you explicitly to straighten your hair, or wear that neon yellow t-shirt, or whatever it is you do but be honest man, would you really be doing it if it wasn’t impressing anyone? Start dressing like a man and stop being such a god-damn faggot.
It seems like what I’m trying to say here is that having a independent mind, and being tough with what you think instead of what you say or do or how you act is really the measure of how manly you are. But what the fuck do I know? Don’t shit your pants over it. Oh, and this should go without saying, but constantly demanding that your woman wash your clothes or make you a sandwich or something doesn’t make you look like a man. It makes you look like a snivelling pathetic faggot. Alright, I’m going to bed, so fuck off.
*I almost forgot, I'm obviously not talking about gays here. It can apply to gays, but certainly not all of them. We're on all of mankind.* Did you know the word poof works like that too? Seriously, look it up...
Ok, the word faggot is pretty prevalent nowadays, and so, to a lesser degree, is its hugely superior derivative faggotry. Now, I can tell by your discerning choice in internet bullshit-merchants that you’re a pretty smart person so there’s no need to go into why we don’t need a word that degrades gay men or suggests that random allegations of homosexuality are grounds for offence and not bewilderment BUT…
I think certain elements of our male society have gone a bit wayward, I think they’ve lost their grip (if such a grip they ever had) on what it means to be a man. Now don’t be silly and think I’m about to tell you what that is; I don’t think anyone except Gregory Peck and possibly Chuck Ragan know “what it means to be a man” and far be it from me to try to quantify it, so instead I’m gonna talk about the kind of assholes who are just doing it wrong. Some guys are so misled in their ideas of manliness and of what’s acceptable in today’s (or any society) that they need a word, preferably a very offensive word, to describe them and their actions, a word that can transcend sexuality* and make it clear to these assholes that they need to produce a scrotum and testes quick-snap before we find our society in ruins. I believe that word is faggotry.
We start with guys who take a perverse pleasure in broadcasting their feelings in public. Have you seen facebook? A quick scout around that shitpile finds the following guy-on-girl (I'll type that again: GUY-ON-GIRL) comments (verbatim):
“happy birthday sweetness! Xxx”
“why are you so pretty [Luke‘s friend]?”
“it's because i love you [Luke‘s other friend].”
Ok let’s be reasonable, sometimes girls like to hear this shit, and a lot of the time it’s probably at least some kind of reflection on the guy’s feelings, but I have two problems; guys generally don’t, and definitely shouldn’t talk like this, and you’re talking on a fucking public forum. Have some god-damn dignity and keep it to yourself. Don’t get me wrong here, guys showing their emotions is a good thing, a healthy thing, but when you’re hamming it up for an audience and trying to play the decent guy card? That’s faggotry. Rank faggotry. (On the subject of being a “nice guy” I have a theory on how to sort decent guys from disgusting perverts; if you’re half good-looking ask him what he’d do if he was invisible for a day. If the response doesn’t involve a variation on the phrase “girls’ changing room” you’ve got yourself a pervert. Alright, I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong. The key thing here is to accept that all straight guys want to have sex with all half good-looking women, and they would all of them, to a man, spend their invisible time engaged in some sort of nefarious, boob-related activity. So the guy that admits it, he’s just being totally straight, totally honest, but the “nice guy” that says he’d, I don’t know, rescue a kitten or something [from, I assume, some bizarre scenario that calls for an invisible man, and only an invisible man…] well he’s lied. Lied to try to get you into bed. So who’s the decent guy now? Ok, enough of that, back to the matter…)
Sportsmen. Aka, rank faggotry. It’s been literally thousands of years since chest-beating was an acceptable way for the human male to attract a mate. We have civilization now, and I realise that some women are still attracted to torsos and thighs and all that, but that’s a fucking evolutionary throwback man. A guy doesn’t need that now. As long as he’s not a total fatass and he’s healthy enough to work a job that’ll pay for some slave-labourer to send food from China or wherever, he’s gonna function alright in society. Ladies, ask yourself this: when was the last time your boyfriend had to protect you from an enraged pterodactyl or hunt-gather food for you? Now try to remember the last time a rugby player engaged you in conversation about, say, the merits and demerits of a paternalistic society, or the ephemerality of the concept of victory, not just in a sporting sense, but also when viewed in the context of a cold, indifferent universe that probably doesn’t even have the ability to care about the dizzying highs and terrifying lows of the entire human experience, let alone Morgan Parra’s opinion of Ireland’s defensive style. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that if you care about sport, you care about the wrong fucking things, and subverting the need for rational self analysis, trying to balance your inadequacies, whatever they may be, with rampant narcissism, unjustifiable arrogance and the fleeting feeling of self worth brought by the abstract concept of “points?” I call that faggotry.
Ok, this is the last thing because I’ve being going too long already. Guys should never dress up to attract girls (and this works the other way too, I’m just coming at it from a man’s perspective.) Doing anything because of someone else’s expectations is always gonna pan out terribly, because it will never seem honest. What’s the difference between Against Me! and Billy X-Factor, whatever his name is? One of them is doing what they’re passionate about, doing it only for themselves, and would likely be doing it if no one told them to, and the other one’s doing what he’s told. And which one’s gonna look like an asshole in twenty years? Ok, I know no girl has ever told you explicitly to straighten your hair, or wear that neon yellow t-shirt, or whatever it is you do but be honest man, would you really be doing it if it wasn’t impressing anyone? Start dressing like a man and stop being such a god-damn faggot.
It seems like what I’m trying to say here is that having a independent mind, and being tough with what you think instead of what you say or do or how you act is really the measure of how manly you are. But what the fuck do I know? Don’t shit your pants over it. Oh, and this should go without saying, but constantly demanding that your woman wash your clothes or make you a sandwich or something doesn’t make you look like a man. It makes you look like a snivelling pathetic faggot. Alright, I’m going to bed, so fuck off.
*I almost forgot, I'm obviously not talking about gays here. It can apply to gays, but certainly not all of them. We're on all of mankind.* Did you know the word poof works like that too? Seriously, look it up...
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