Hello assholes and she-assholes. It’s been a while hasn’t it? I’m actually considering changing the title of this thing to “Luke McGinty Drinks and Doesn’t Write All That Much.” Not only is it true it’s also pretty snappy, am I right? If I could be bothered to go into the inner workings and change things around I might actually change it. Until then you’ll just have to imagine it. From now on imagine the title at the top saying Luke McGinty Drinks instead ok? Ok. Agreed. Hmm… I seem to be typing a lot and not thinking too much at the moment and that’s usually a bad sign so let’s try and be serious for a moment.
Alright, have you heard about this bullshit Owl City? I don’t know whether it’s a band or just one guy or what but it’s like the dude decided “ok I’m gonna make this band, it’ll be EXACTLY like The Postal Service but, I don’t know, it’ll be sort of like The Postal Service for cunts…” Well bad news jackass, they already made a Postal Service for cunts. It’s called The Postal Service. The real trouble, though, is that Owl City’s fucking fan base is mostly made up of so-called rock & roll guys. I don’t just want to pick on these assholes, but they’re symptomatic of a pretty horrifying state of affairs. Man, I don’t know exactly what’s going on with music just now, I really don’t. But I’m gonna write about it anyway. Welcome to the internet, assholes.
I think a big part of the problem is a sort of confusion that seems to exist between music people like and music that’s actually good. Have you ever heard the phrase “can’t you just enjoy something and not have to over think things all the time?” You probably have, and if you’re an idiot (you probably are) then you might even have used it. The answer is yes, but you have to understand that the fact you enjoy it doesn’t make it good. For example, I really like this band The Briggs. They have all these well-written, catchy songs, their aesthetic is pretty cool and their attitude is broadly in line with mine; long story short, I like The Briggs. Also, they’re fucking shit. They’re generic, by-the-book punk bullshit, they’ll never progress their genre and they’ll never do anything that hasn’t been done before. You’re probably thinking “Luke, wtf lol, why do you like them if you think they’re shit?” The answer is that it’s alright to enjoy something that’s shit, just don’t try to soothe your pride by trying to claim that it's something it’s not. I also enjoy You've Been Framed, wanking and McDonald’s but I don’t hold any of those things up as the pinnacle of human fucking achievement.
What this all leads to (I’m trying to stay on-topic tonight) is a culture that accepts, even encourages shit music because people are idiots and seem pretty unwilling to accept that they’re idiots who listen to dogshit. That’s pretty understandable, and I’m not saying you need to stop listening to it, just be realistic and give up on the idea that Paramore are the best fucking thing ever.
Here’s another thing: I can remember a time not too long ago when not everybody listened to music. Serious, it was like there was a minority of people who would put the effort in to find their niche and research the music they liked and everyone else was happy to just listen to the radio when they were in the car and buy the occasional Will Young CD. This was a time when music was still cool, and you could tell whether someone was cool by virtue of whether they liked cool music or not, and this was possible because it wasn’t like nowadays, when everyone listens to exactly the same dogshit. Some idiots have sometimes said “just because something’s not popular doesn’t mean it’s cool you know…” These are the kind of people who think that fish and chips is good for you and that liking The Replacements better than Paramore makes a person pretentious. In fact the converse is true: being unpopular doesn’t necessarily make something cool, but being popular sure as fuck makes it uncool. That’s why it was such a dick-punch when they turned hip-hop into an advert for trainers and rock & roll into Miley Cyrus and everything you used to think was cool suddenly wasn’t all that cool anymore.
Unfortunately that’s not even the whole story. If you don’t have any integrity then music is a pretty alright business to get into, and there are plenty of guys out there who will happily jump in front of any parade if they think it’ll make them some money, get their dick sucked or make their hair look better. Whether you’re into hardcore or rock & roll or hip-hop or whatever, you’ll inevitably have come across some disneyfied version of it produced not for love of the music but solely because someone figured they could capitalise on it. The logic continues like this: “if we can make a parody of one beloved culture for fourteen-year-old girls to listen to in their bedrooms, why can’t we do the same with all of them at the same time?" *thunder-clap, maniacal laughter* This is where we get the unfortunate practice of assholes watering everything down to make idiots like it, then trying to appeal to as many fucking demographics as happen to be fashionable at the time. And the result? The awful result is assholes like this motherfucker.
Oh, and Owl City.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Where The Hell Is Your Vagina?
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.
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.
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...
Friday, 1 January 2010
This Is My Year For Sure
It’s 2010 now. How about that eh? What are you saying, out of disinterest, two-thousand and ten or twenty-ten? It’s a frightening thought but there are actually people out there who talk about that kind of shit as if it's important. Hmm… Mine was a bizarre one this year, I’ve got to tell you; all-male nipple licking, a long-distance phone call from the Caribbean, a mid-afternoon steam-out in my friends’ in-house sauna… all that plus more besides. I fucking hate new year. I actually do, I don’t know why. Last night I had a very good time, but I just have never enjoyed New Year’s Eve as much as other nights. Anybody want to speculate as to why? I think it’s the anticipation you’re supposed to feel about it even if you don’t really care. Anybody out there get really, genuinely excited about what you know is almost certainly gonna be just one more mediocre fucking night? Or even think about it? Is this important at all? “Anticipation has a tendency to set you up for disappointment…” Who said that again? When I was younger I always got really fucking sad every seventeenth of October* when I realised, man it’s just your fucking birthday. It’s one more day, why all the excitement? I don’t know.
Anyway, here’s a curious story… One New Year’s Day, I think it must’ve been ought-seven or something, I was driving from Edinburgh, where I live now, to Dundee, where I lived then. So I was driving through town about ten minutes from my house and by the way I was desperate for a piss. That’s not important, I’m just trying to put you in the picture. Well it was a little wet that day, the rain had stopped maybe the day before but there was a hazy sort of mist lying over everything. I stopped my car at a traffic lights and before I knew what was happening this girl got in. It was pretty strange but I was tired and sleep deprived and still slightly hungover so I was in a haze, everything just happening, you know? And there’s no thinking or anything you just go along with it. So this girl was a lesbian and she smelled of stale cigarette smoke and she was drunk as hell. She told me she had a few problems but she was pretty cheerful about it; she had to go somewhere and meet someone and she was drunk as hell and she had no way to get there, so she figured she’d go ahead and get in my car and asked if I’d drive her. Her name was Laura. So we set off and she talked a lot, I can’t remember what she talked about. It wasn’t too interesting. We were about five minutes away from what I assumed was her girlfriend’s house and she said “what star sign are you?” I thought “Oh good, astrology. She’s almost certainly not an total fucking idiot if she believes in astrology.” So I told her, I said “Libra.” She looked at me for all of about two seconds and then said “the seventeenth of October.” I don’t say much most of the time but that doesn’t mean I never have anything to say. Well at this point in time I was completely fucking lost for words. If you haven’t been paying attention the seventeenth of October is my birthday. I didn’t understand it at the time and I don’t understand it now. This girl who I had never met in my life, had never seen before and haven’t seen since, was able to guess the exact date of my birthday just from my fucking star sign. Let’s be clear about one thing: astrology is almost certainly a massive load of bullshit. Star signs and planetary alingnments and all that, what the fuck can that possibly tell you about a person? And what does it matter what date you were born? It’s just another fucking day man. It means nothing. I don’t know where this is going, I don’t have a point here I just wanted to tell the story. Laura the psychic lesbian. I actually had her number stored in my phone for a long time under “Laura Psychic Lesbian.” That to differentiate her from “Laura Cousin.” So the tale ends like this: she asked for my number in return, I sold her a bluff and went the fuck home. It was one of the strangest moments of my life.
Happy new year.
*When you first read that you probably thought “Wtf lol, why did he write that? Why didn’t he just write ‘on my birthday’ or something like that, why is the date important?” Well it was important, asshole. It was important to the fucking story. Never doubt me again.
Anyway, here’s a curious story… One New Year’s Day, I think it must’ve been ought-seven or something, I was driving from Edinburgh, where I live now, to Dundee, where I lived then. So I was driving through town about ten minutes from my house and by the way I was desperate for a piss. That’s not important, I’m just trying to put you in the picture. Well it was a little wet that day, the rain had stopped maybe the day before but there was a hazy sort of mist lying over everything. I stopped my car at a traffic lights and before I knew what was happening this girl got in. It was pretty strange but I was tired and sleep deprived and still slightly hungover so I was in a haze, everything just happening, you know? And there’s no thinking or anything you just go along with it. So this girl was a lesbian and she smelled of stale cigarette smoke and she was drunk as hell. She told me she had a few problems but she was pretty cheerful about it; she had to go somewhere and meet someone and she was drunk as hell and she had no way to get there, so she figured she’d go ahead and get in my car and asked if I’d drive her. Her name was Laura. So we set off and she talked a lot, I can’t remember what she talked about. It wasn’t too interesting. We were about five minutes away from what I assumed was her girlfriend’s house and she said “what star sign are you?” I thought “Oh good, astrology. She’s almost certainly not an total fucking idiot if she believes in astrology.” So I told her, I said “Libra.” She looked at me for all of about two seconds and then said “the seventeenth of October.” I don’t say much most of the time but that doesn’t mean I never have anything to say. Well at this point in time I was completely fucking lost for words. If you haven’t been paying attention the seventeenth of October is my birthday. I didn’t understand it at the time and I don’t understand it now. This girl who I had never met in my life, had never seen before and haven’t seen since, was able to guess the exact date of my birthday just from my fucking star sign. Let’s be clear about one thing: astrology is almost certainly a massive load of bullshit. Star signs and planetary alingnments and all that, what the fuck can that possibly tell you about a person? And what does it matter what date you were born? It’s just another fucking day man. It means nothing. I don’t know where this is going, I don’t have a point here I just wanted to tell the story. Laura the psychic lesbian. I actually had her number stored in my phone for a long time under “Laura Psychic Lesbian.” That to differentiate her from “Laura Cousin.” So the tale ends like this: she asked for my number in return, I sold her a bluff and went the fuck home. It was one of the strangest moments of my life.
Happy new year.
*When you first read that you probably thought “Wtf lol, why did he write that? Why didn’t he just write ‘on my birthday’ or something like that, why is the date important?” Well it was important, asshole. It was important to the fucking story. Never doubt me again.
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
"Tonight's Forecast: A Freeeeze is Comin" -or- "Cool Party" -or- "ICE!"
Here’s a true story to kick off with tonight: a guy with a gimpy hand came into my place of work the other night. You know those gimpy little claw hands that you see people going around with sometimes? One of those. Ok, so he makes his order and (by the way, I work in a takeout pizza place, maybe I should’ve mentioned that earlier) so he makes his order right, and when the girl goes to give him his pizzas he asks for a carrier bag. Thing is, the bags we have are that close to being too small to fit pizzas in so if someone asks for a bag I normally tell them to fuck off. It can’t be easy carrying all those boxes with a gimpy claw hand though, so this motherfucker gets special dispensation. Now picture this: he’s struggling to wrestle all of this food into his not-quite-big-enough carrier bag, the girl I work with is looking on with what I can only describe, at the risk of generalising, as typical Eastern European haughtiness and disdain (anyone else noticed that? Just me? Ok…) so I figure I’m gonna have to step in. Here’s what my opening gambit was: “Are you managing there mate, or do you want a wee hand?”
I swear to god, I only realised my blunder at the moment our eyes met, just as the words “a wee hand” passed my lips. “A wee hand,” I said. For serious. And here’s the tragic thing: in real life I would never use the phrase “a wee hand.” That’s just a goofy fucking phrase, man. It sounds like something I might’ve heard a proper person like a plumber or something say at some point, so to keep up the rouse of my completely affected “proper person” status at work it just sort of came out. I honestly didn’t know where to look.
Anyway enough about that. What else? Uh, it’s winter I suppose. I actually had a big sanctimonious rant about how you really ought to wear boots in the winter time and how people that wear trainers are lesser men than I am but I’ve had to sack that idea off, here’s why: I was out walking around in my boots yesterday feeling sanctimonious and everything and I took a fall on account of the ice. What a boob, I thought to myself. Here’s where it gets funny: I only fell over from a fucking standing start didn’t I? No word of a lie, there I was completely stationary at the side of the road waiting to cross and next thing you know, bam - I’m over. Explain that if you can… (By the way, here’s a quick aside: don’t think that that anecdote diminishes the veracity of my “winter-trainer-wearers lesser men” idea, that’s still true. Don’t wear trainers in the fucking winter, ok? Ok. And don’t even let me get started on cunts that wear ugg boots in the snow. Really? Ugg boots? In the snow? I don’t know, man…)
Ok, I don’t think any of this is all that interesting or entertaining so it’s time to fuck off and go and do something else. Go on, fuck off.
I swear to god, I only realised my blunder at the moment our eyes met, just as the words “a wee hand” passed my lips. “A wee hand,” I said. For serious. And here’s the tragic thing: in real life I would never use the phrase “a wee hand.” That’s just a goofy fucking phrase, man. It sounds like something I might’ve heard a proper person like a plumber or something say at some point, so to keep up the rouse of my completely affected “proper person” status at work it just sort of came out. I honestly didn’t know where to look.
Anyway enough about that. What else? Uh, it’s winter I suppose. I actually had a big sanctimonious rant about how you really ought to wear boots in the winter time and how people that wear trainers are lesser men than I am but I’ve had to sack that idea off, here’s why: I was out walking around in my boots yesterday feeling sanctimonious and everything and I took a fall on account of the ice. What a boob, I thought to myself. Here’s where it gets funny: I only fell over from a fucking standing start didn’t I? No word of a lie, there I was completely stationary at the side of the road waiting to cross and next thing you know, bam - I’m over. Explain that if you can… (By the way, here’s a quick aside: don’t think that that anecdote diminishes the veracity of my “winter-trainer-wearers lesser men” idea, that’s still true. Don’t wear trainers in the fucking winter, ok? Ok. And don’t even let me get started on cunts that wear ugg boots in the snow. Really? Ugg boots? In the snow? I don’t know, man…)
Ok, I don’t think any of this is all that interesting or entertaining so it’s time to fuck off and go and do something else. Go on, fuck off.
Monday, 21 December 2009
"Fuck You I Won't Do What You... Wait, What Do I Have To Buy?"
Ok, Rage Against The Machine are Christmas number one this year. This, reader, is an Important Thing. Yes it is. Yes it is, it made the front page, man. Big news. So anyway if you didn’t hear about it yet, or if you’re just as confused as I am, let me explain:
Some time ago there was a pretty mediocre rock & roll band and they came up with a load of songs that were all about not conforming, and not doing what The Man thinks you should do and all sorts of really cool but actually totally horsecrap teen-angst shit like that. This was really cool. Then, about fifteen years later about 200,000 people all got told to go and buy the same record and then they all went and bought the same record. This was also really cool. All clear? Good.
Ok, am I the only one thinking it’s sort of weird that the fucking refrain from Killing In The Name goes “fuck you I won’t do what you tell me,” and all it takes to get a bunch of jackoffs* to go and buy it is just telling them to? I don’t know, man. Maybe I’m missing the point. This whole thing was supposed to stop the X Factor getting to number one or something? That’s cool I suppose. And Rage Against The Machine are a pretty cool band, cooler than whatever softcock douchebag Simon Cowell managed to drag out of Phones 4 U’s employment pool this year anyway, but would it have made more sense to have a campaign that just went ahead and said “don’t buy the X Factor?” Surely that would have struck a much bigger blow in that, y’know, people wouldn’t have bought it? But that shit plain wouldn't have worked, here’s why: people (and I think I’ve discussed this before) are assholes. I figure it at about 90-95% of people are moronic assholes who won’t do anything unless they’re told exactly what to do and why it’s cool to do it. That’s why Rage Against The Machine’s fucking boner brigade are about a cock-hair’s width away from acting in exactly the same way as every unthinking dullard that went out and bought Retard Joe’s single. And that’s why there is nothing cool about this whole sorry affair.
By the way, if you’ve just finished reading and you’ve entertained this pile of dogshit at all, you’ve missed the point entirely. You see this article is completely academic because I’ve glossed over the fundamental point of the argument: it’s the Christmas number one. If you’re over the age of twelve and have even the slightest interest in Christmas number one you’re definitely some sort of backwards, arrested development retard that deserves to be sterilised or worse.
Merry Christmas Number One Jackoffs!
*P.S. I think I’m gonna bring the word “jackoff” into play. I think it‘s a good word. “jackoff…” Ok? Ok.
Some time ago there was a pretty mediocre rock & roll band and they came up with a load of songs that were all about not conforming, and not doing what The Man thinks you should do and all sorts of really cool but actually totally horsecrap teen-angst shit like that. This was really cool. Then, about fifteen years later about 200,000 people all got told to go and buy the same record and then they all went and bought the same record. This was also really cool. All clear? Good.
Ok, am I the only one thinking it’s sort of weird that the fucking refrain from Killing In The Name goes “fuck you I won’t do what you tell me,” and all it takes to get a bunch of jackoffs* to go and buy it is just telling them to? I don’t know, man. Maybe I’m missing the point. This whole thing was supposed to stop the X Factor getting to number one or something? That’s cool I suppose. And Rage Against The Machine are a pretty cool band, cooler than whatever softcock douchebag Simon Cowell managed to drag out of Phones 4 U’s employment pool this year anyway, but would it have made more sense to have a campaign that just went ahead and said “don’t buy the X Factor?” Surely that would have struck a much bigger blow in that, y’know, people wouldn’t have bought it? But that shit plain wouldn't have worked, here’s why: people (and I think I’ve discussed this before) are assholes. I figure it at about 90-95% of people are moronic assholes who won’t do anything unless they’re told exactly what to do and why it’s cool to do it. That’s why Rage Against The Machine’s fucking boner brigade are about a cock-hair’s width away from acting in exactly the same way as every unthinking dullard that went out and bought Retard Joe’s single. And that’s why there is nothing cool about this whole sorry affair.
By the way, if you’ve just finished reading and you’ve entertained this pile of dogshit at all, you’ve missed the point entirely. You see this article is completely academic because I’ve glossed over the fundamental point of the argument: it’s the Christmas number one. If you’re over the age of twelve and have even the slightest interest in Christmas number one you’re definitely some sort of backwards, arrested development retard that deserves to be sterilised or worse.
Merry Christmas Number One Jackoffs!
*P.S. I think I’m gonna bring the word “jackoff” into play. I think it‘s a good word. “jackoff…” Ok? Ok.
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