I loathe self appointed authorities on everything. Its people like them who think that they know it all that stuff it up for those of us that actually do.
Take music and movie reviewers. It must be a miserable existence having a job that has you finding fault in the things that are there for you to enjoy in the first place. I say ‘job’ but it really is a misleading term because how fucken hard is it to listen to music or watch movies all day? Even if they are shite, it would still beat the Groundhog Day drudgery of office life I reckon. You can’t open a bag of Twisties and start treating your body like an amusement park ride at your office desk that’s for sure.
Isn’t it interesting what people will say in a job interview because they think its going to get them the job? My personal fave is when they start dissing the current or previous boss and colleagues in the mistaken believe that it will somehow make them come across in the interview as the only person who did any work at their previous job. What it actually makes them look like is a moaning, back stabbing prick that will be doing the same thing to me should I be silly enough to hire them. They might as well walk into the interview with a tee shirt on that says “I’m A Cunt”.
Maybe they all end up getting jobs as music reviewers?
I happened to read a music reviewers online blog the other day. This blogger, who we shall call Simon, because his real name is actually Simon, is a fat man who blames you for making him fat. He’s the kind of guy that stopped getting invited to party’s years ago because he likes to tell the host that their choice of music was crap. He’s the type of guy that when he throws a party, very few attend because he likes to tell his guests that their choice of music is crap. He’s the kind of guy who reviews a music concert that he didn’t have to pay to see and says it was crap. The 10 000 other concert goers who actually paid for their tickets would disagree, but hey, what the fuck do they know? They’re all crap.
Simon and I actually have a wee bit of history. He was the first columnist I had ever read that got on my tits so much that I actually wrote to the newspaper to tell him just how much of a penarse I thought he was. He had written a review for a concert that I had been at that was so completely off track I actually questioned if he'd been in the same room as I, but then the review had started with something like "I hate this band" and pretty much went down hill from there anyway. Maybe its just me but I tend to think reviews should be about the event, not another chance for some fat fuck to tell you how miserable he is being at someplace he never wanted to be anyway.
Simon has that hoity toity air about him that all critics have about them because they think they’re better than you and I. They hate anything ‘popular’ because that translates in loser speak to ‘crap’. The irony of this of course is that despite gagging for the attention and adoration of the masses, the critic is caught between wanting to be talked about by everyone, but not so much that it makes him / her ‘popular’. Because then they’d be crap.
All music reviewers incidentally have the same list of favourite obscure bands, whose CDs they practically have to give away at the Warehouse because no one else buys them. Everything else musically, in the mind of the music critic, is crap. Bands that sell trillions of records and who bring delight to the trillions of people who bought them, are crap. Why? Because a fat man who can’t figure out why his stumpy pecker is a constant shade of Twistie orange and who has a black belt in being an arsehole said so.
I used to come across this kind of nothing argument almost every day when I worked in a music store. People trading off bands like they were sports teams. Who gives a shit, really? If you like a band and they rock your world then enjoy it man. Don't let some geezer who's sphincter sealed itself up years ago because all the shit was coming out of his mouth tell you otherwise.
Simon's latest blog is a list of bands he thinks are ‘over rated’ and who are therefore in his mind – wait for it – crap. Now I may be new to the blogging biz but I know enough to know that when you start making a list of anything, then you’ve clearly run out of ideas.
Simon? Merry Christmas mate. P.S Your blog is crap.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Cheer Up Emo
The world is full of arseholes, figuratively speaking, but that shouldn’t mean folk have to act like one. Take for instance the foreskin in Nebraska who took an AK47 to the shopping mall because life got a little bit tough for him. What a cocksucker.
You know that it is we the people promote this kind of bullshit. That’s right, you and I. Not because we allow video game companies to make first person shooter games, or Hollywood to glorify violence on the big and small screen. No, that stuff has always been there and always will. We do so by buying the newspapers, the magazines and the pay TV news channels that run endless post massacre articles on the waste of space that ultimately immortalise him in the eyes of other wasters who long to be adored.
These are gonads that aren't satisified being just like all the other freaks and geeks on YouTube, stapling their genitals to a piece of wood and farting near an open flame. No they want to be news worthy and fuck me if there isn’t a world waiting to appease them. Just like the popularity of the link to the story about some cooze shagging in a public place, we’re all gagging to hear about the next Emo who goes postal because his boyfriend dumped him.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike Emos, I think everyone should own one. But it does strike me that Emos are just Goths who think they’re too depressed to be called Goth. Back in my day, when gay meant happy, kids went Goth for the same reason kids today go Emo – they didn’t want to have their hair cut when their Mum said so, they didn’t want to bathe and they needed an excuse to listen to crap music that noone else listened to like the Cure. Emos could actually save themselves the money they spend on eyeliner by presenting themselves to the nearest heterosexual man who would be more than happy to give them two black eyes each morning. Cheer up Emo, for fucks sake.
Now I may not be the sharpest dildo in the draw but I can’t help but think there’s something retarded in not wanting to conform but yet still aligning yourself with a group of folk who all, wait for it, conform. How does that work?! If you wanna be out there, then walk round in the buff, not many folk are out there doing that right at this moment in time.
I tried playing the ‘too cool for school’ card myself once, or rather twice actually by not going to either of my two school formals. I made out like I didn’t want to go because everyone else actually was, but in truth it was down to my mother being tighter than a nuns nasty with money and not wanting to shell out for the suit hire. The bitch. But I can’t complain, we had the necessities of life like a 12 seated mahogany dinner table that cost more than the house and we weren’t actually allowed to ever sit at. There was only the four of us mind you so maybe that’s why. We made it look empty.
No there’s only one sure fire way to deal with these wannabe martyrs. Ignore them. Don’t publicise, analyse or glorify their actions. Obviously its news but lets stick to the bare facts and report something along the lines of “Loser Kid Fucks Up Mass Murder By Only Shooting Seven”. Belittle the guy even in death by taking the piss out of him because he only shot seven in a crowded mall with an automatic rifle, which is a poor effort really. Prove to all that want to be like him that even in death, society will still see you as a loser.
At the end of the day it’s up to us, you and me, to not buy this shit when it sees print. Because like it or not, we all play a part. Just like as in the death of Princess Diana, our hands inadvertently have blood on them for creating the demand that drove the paparazzi to chase her through the streets of Paris. You personally may not have bought the mag that ran the photos, but you can bet your Mum, sister or slightly effeminate mate helped the cause by buying the latest Womans Day whilst waiting in the queue at Woolies.
Incidentally, sealed sections in chick mags have become decidedly lame these days. If I’m getting my wife to buy the mag for the sealed section I want to see full on bush, milkers and hell why not, cock. If all I’m getting is animated diagrams and raunchy forums all written, one handed, by the same fat guy then I’m going to start stapling that fucker back up and returning it under the pretence of false advertising. I might even include several polaroids of myself depicting the type of imagery one expects to find in a sealed section. And don’t give me the ‘10 best positions’ rubbish again because we all know there’s only two – the one where your partner does all the work and the one where you just need to lie there.
I wonder if Emos have their own positions? I doubt it. I can only imagine depression sex begins and probably never ends in the missionary mode. Cheer up Emo, for fucks sake.
You know that it is we the people promote this kind of bullshit. That’s right, you and I. Not because we allow video game companies to make first person shooter games, or Hollywood to glorify violence on the big and small screen. No, that stuff has always been there and always will. We do so by buying the newspapers, the magazines and the pay TV news channels that run endless post massacre articles on the waste of space that ultimately immortalise him in the eyes of other wasters who long to be adored.
These are gonads that aren't satisified being just like all the other freaks and geeks on YouTube, stapling their genitals to a piece of wood and farting near an open flame. No they want to be news worthy and fuck me if there isn’t a world waiting to appease them. Just like the popularity of the link to the story about some cooze shagging in a public place, we’re all gagging to hear about the next Emo who goes postal because his boyfriend dumped him.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike Emos, I think everyone should own one. But it does strike me that Emos are just Goths who think they’re too depressed to be called Goth. Back in my day, when gay meant happy, kids went Goth for the same reason kids today go Emo – they didn’t want to have their hair cut when their Mum said so, they didn’t want to bathe and they needed an excuse to listen to crap music that noone else listened to like the Cure. Emos could actually save themselves the money they spend on eyeliner by presenting themselves to the nearest heterosexual man who would be more than happy to give them two black eyes each morning. Cheer up Emo, for fucks sake.
Now I may not be the sharpest dildo in the draw but I can’t help but think there’s something retarded in not wanting to conform but yet still aligning yourself with a group of folk who all, wait for it, conform. How does that work?! If you wanna be out there, then walk round in the buff, not many folk are out there doing that right at this moment in time.
I tried playing the ‘too cool for school’ card myself once, or rather twice actually by not going to either of my two school formals. I made out like I didn’t want to go because everyone else actually was, but in truth it was down to my mother being tighter than a nuns nasty with money and not wanting to shell out for the suit hire. The bitch. But I can’t complain, we had the necessities of life like a 12 seated mahogany dinner table that cost more than the house and we weren’t actually allowed to ever sit at. There was only the four of us mind you so maybe that’s why. We made it look empty.
No there’s only one sure fire way to deal with these wannabe martyrs. Ignore them. Don’t publicise, analyse or glorify their actions. Obviously its news but lets stick to the bare facts and report something along the lines of “Loser Kid Fucks Up Mass Murder By Only Shooting Seven”. Belittle the guy even in death by taking the piss out of him because he only shot seven in a crowded mall with an automatic rifle, which is a poor effort really. Prove to all that want to be like him that even in death, society will still see you as a loser.
At the end of the day it’s up to us, you and me, to not buy this shit when it sees print. Because like it or not, we all play a part. Just like as in the death of Princess Diana, our hands inadvertently have blood on them for creating the demand that drove the paparazzi to chase her through the streets of Paris. You personally may not have bought the mag that ran the photos, but you can bet your Mum, sister or slightly effeminate mate helped the cause by buying the latest Womans Day whilst waiting in the queue at Woolies.
Incidentally, sealed sections in chick mags have become decidedly lame these days. If I’m getting my wife to buy the mag for the sealed section I want to see full on bush, milkers and hell why not, cock. If all I’m getting is animated diagrams and raunchy forums all written, one handed, by the same fat guy then I’m going to start stapling that fucker back up and returning it under the pretence of false advertising. I might even include several polaroids of myself depicting the type of imagery one expects to find in a sealed section. And don’t give me the ‘10 best positions’ rubbish again because we all know there’s only two – the one where your partner does all the work and the one where you just need to lie there.
I wonder if Emos have their own positions? I doubt it. I can only imagine depression sex begins and probably never ends in the missionary mode. Cheer up Emo, for fucks sake.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
I Like To Watch
Do you think that someone should tell Terri Irwin that she doesn’t need to wear the whole khaki outfit anymore? If its functionality she wants then blue and grey camo is both functional and fashionable. Khaki I’m afraid, is neither.
It has been a few days since I last blogged, the four of you that read this (not counting myself) may have noticed. I have been busying myself with watching the great man David Beckham play football and rather more disturbingly, having dreams involving close mates and their girlfriends.
In my latest, Big Gay Ray, who is not really gay, he’s only it for the monthly subscription to Does My Bum Look Big In This? mag, was showing us all at work a photo of his missus sleeping in the nude. The photo is taken from the top of her head (she’s lying down, face up) and has Ray at the foot of the bed with his thumbs up and a look on his face that says “Yeah, here’s a photo of my missus sleeping naked, score!”
But that’s not the weird bit. I want to know who took the photo? It’s not Ray, cause he’s at the foot of the bed and his missus is asleep so either the camera was on a timer, or there was a second pervert in the room. I'd take it up with him but seeing as the whole thing is a figment of my imagination it might not go down too well.
I used to work with a guy who would regularly hand round Polaroid’s of his missus in the buff. He had that same look on his face too. Obviously its cool to have watch other guys ogle your naked girlfriend. I can’t say that I’m rushing off to set up the camera in our bedroom just yet, but who knows, if the lighting is right and the mood is set?
This girl was attractive enough but always drunk or comatose in the photos, which kind of makes it illegal for him to be taking photos methinks. And he was always going on about how she was a ‘psycho bitch’. Gee I wonder if that was because she heard he was passing around nudie pix of her?!
Why does shit keep getting smaller?
Like Tim Tam balls and mini bite size versions of all the crap food you’d normally buy whole but get sucked into buying smaller portions because you think you’re eating less. Ever notice how you end up paying more for the smaller portions though? The food companies want you to think that they’re doing their bit in fighting obesity by making every thing smaller, but it all counts for shit when you have to buy double to make up for the fact you’re still as hungry as fuck.
Speaking of small balls, my wife believes there is a direct link to my up-tightness and the size of my man fruit. Her theory is that every time my anus puckers in anger i.e. every time I blog, it shrinks my manberries on account of the two being connected. So much like Tim Tam balls, mine are now available in minuscule but the good news is you can eat more of them. Now that’s what I call portion control.
Asians are great for making shit smaller. The ones that live across the street from me aren’t into small as much as they are into secretive. You hardly ever see them but I’d swear there are about 30 people living in the one house. Why just today they managed to move one sibling out and an entire trailer load of his stuff, without even lifting the garage door any higher than the bowl they cut their hair with.
I did once catch a glimpse inside their garage and I was surprised to see the thing was full of car tyres. I was expecting bags of rice but no, piles and piles of car tyres. I suspect they’re making them in there, that’s why the curtains are always shut. Pure uncut retread manufacture, it’s middle New Zealand’s latest epidemic. I’m actually damn tempted to go over and ask if they have any that will fit the ol’ passion wagon just quietly but I don’t want to let on I’ve spied on them whilst lying on the floor, under the coffee table, in our lounge just so they couldn’t see me.
Who doesn’t like to watch aye? Why just the other day I found myself in quite the predicament. Whilst closing the curtains I noticed the next door neighbours teenage daughter and her friend alone in their room, in their pyjamas, playing Singstar. Because they were in their pyjamas I knew it wouldn’t be long before they started stripping down to their grundies, shaving each others legs, having pillow fights and probably practising their pashing. I’ve seen enough girlie product ads to know that that’s what girls do when having a sleep over. My god was I tempted to turn the light out and watch.
And then Big Gay Ray appeared in their window with his thumbs up….or was that just another one of my dreams?
It has been a few days since I last blogged, the four of you that read this (not counting myself) may have noticed. I have been busying myself with watching the great man David Beckham play football and rather more disturbingly, having dreams involving close mates and their girlfriends.
In my latest, Big Gay Ray, who is not really gay, he’s only it for the monthly subscription to Does My Bum Look Big In This? mag, was showing us all at work a photo of his missus sleeping in the nude. The photo is taken from the top of her head (she’s lying down, face up) and has Ray at the foot of the bed with his thumbs up and a look on his face that says “Yeah, here’s a photo of my missus sleeping naked, score!”
But that’s not the weird bit. I want to know who took the photo? It’s not Ray, cause he’s at the foot of the bed and his missus is asleep so either the camera was on a timer, or there was a second pervert in the room. I'd take it up with him but seeing as the whole thing is a figment of my imagination it might not go down too well.
I used to work with a guy who would regularly hand round Polaroid’s of his missus in the buff. He had that same look on his face too. Obviously its cool to have watch other guys ogle your naked girlfriend. I can’t say that I’m rushing off to set up the camera in our bedroom just yet, but who knows, if the lighting is right and the mood is set?
This girl was attractive enough but always drunk or comatose in the photos, which kind of makes it illegal for him to be taking photos methinks. And he was always going on about how she was a ‘psycho bitch’. Gee I wonder if that was because she heard he was passing around nudie pix of her?!
Why does shit keep getting smaller?
Like Tim Tam balls and mini bite size versions of all the crap food you’d normally buy whole but get sucked into buying smaller portions because you think you’re eating less. Ever notice how you end up paying more for the smaller portions though? The food companies want you to think that they’re doing their bit in fighting obesity by making every thing smaller, but it all counts for shit when you have to buy double to make up for the fact you’re still as hungry as fuck.
Speaking of small balls, my wife believes there is a direct link to my up-tightness and the size of my man fruit. Her theory is that every time my anus puckers in anger i.e. every time I blog, it shrinks my manberries on account of the two being connected. So much like Tim Tam balls, mine are now available in minuscule but the good news is you can eat more of them. Now that’s what I call portion control.
Asians are great for making shit smaller. The ones that live across the street from me aren’t into small as much as they are into secretive. You hardly ever see them but I’d swear there are about 30 people living in the one house. Why just today they managed to move one sibling out and an entire trailer load of his stuff, without even lifting the garage door any higher than the bowl they cut their hair with.
I did once catch a glimpse inside their garage and I was surprised to see the thing was full of car tyres. I was expecting bags of rice but no, piles and piles of car tyres. I suspect they’re making them in there, that’s why the curtains are always shut. Pure uncut retread manufacture, it’s middle New Zealand’s latest epidemic. I’m actually damn tempted to go over and ask if they have any that will fit the ol’ passion wagon just quietly but I don’t want to let on I’ve spied on them whilst lying on the floor, under the coffee table, in our lounge just so they couldn’t see me.
Who doesn’t like to watch aye? Why just the other day I found myself in quite the predicament. Whilst closing the curtains I noticed the next door neighbours teenage daughter and her friend alone in their room, in their pyjamas, playing Singstar. Because they were in their pyjamas I knew it wouldn’t be long before they started stripping down to their grundies, shaving each others legs, having pillow fights and probably practising their pashing. I’ve seen enough girlie product ads to know that that’s what girls do when having a sleep over. My god was I tempted to turn the light out and watch.
And then Big Gay Ray appeared in their window with his thumbs up….or was that just another one of my dreams?
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