Friday, November 07, 2008

Change you can bereave in (Or, How I learned to stop worrying and hate the Democrats)

And breathe out.

The people have spoken. Their votes are in, they’ve been counted, we think, and faith has been restored in the system. Barack Obama has been elected president without incident and Big Bad Bush, barring some last-minute presidential term extension act that all the Democrats will vote for, will head back to his ranch in January. Or if not his ranch, then perhaps the 100,000 acres of land he bought on an aquifer in Paraguay. (Note to self: I wonder if Paraguay still has no extradition treaty?)

So now that the country’s all fixed up sharp again and the sense of urgency and panic are gone, ol’ Snotty here, yours truly, would like to pour a tall brandy, take a deep breath, bring the volume down a level and just get real witchew.

I get that Obama’s intelligent and very charismatic, and his election certainly affords a feeling of empowerment to the black community. He’s also got more people than ever before to engage in the political process (though, you could argue Bush has done just as much toward that, as well, by being such a villain). What’s more, Obama should substantially improve Americans’ image abroad. These are all positive things, and for that reason, Barack Obama’s election is better than John McCain’s.

But what is all this change he done talked about? Obama said it himself: “Most of the bills I voted for in the Senate were from Republicans and President Bush.”

Every single Democrat, save for a handful, has been a fucking collaborator with this current criminal administration. For the first four years the Democrats were enablers, an opposition in name only that was so terrified of the political climate it let the Republicans pull whatever got damn atrocity they wanted.

But by the time we reached the second four years the Democrats smelled an opportunity, and they moved from enablers to active collaborators. The political landscape in America became a bizarro world where traditional Republicans like Sen. Dick Lugar, of Indiana, and Sen. Chuck Hagel, of Nebraska, called for an end to Iraq, while the Democrats, nearly in unison, voted for more funding for that unlawful war. Some did it to boost their conservative credentials; others did it because they knew that the longer the war goes on, the more it hurts Republicans.

Democrats have played with people’s lives for the bullshit excuse of political opportunity, and I find that inexcusable. You might say, I hate that. Some say Obama and Hillary and others had to vote the way they did because the country was too conservative and they needed to get elected at this important time so they could one day enact that change that always seems to be just around the corner!

Bullshit. For two reasons. Firstly, we’re not talking about a farming bill. They were voting on war and torture and civil liberties and the future of Roe vs. Wade! By 2004, the war in Iraq was no longer popular (which is why Democrats keep extending that Republican-branded holiday), the nation was appalled by waterboarding, the people were fearful of being spied upon by their telecom company, and justices Alito and Roberts weren’t supported by a majority of the people. The Democrats, Obama and his ambitions at the forefront among them, voted for every single one of those! Abortion rights, which is a sexist issue not a religious one, have been put in danger because Obama voted to confirm justices who vehemently oppose a woman’s right to choose. Why does Obama hate women?

Finally, secondly, aggravatingly and unconscionably, if the country really truly is that conservative (New York and Illinois were really that right wing?) and you’re forced into a position where the only way you can retain your seat is to vote against your better conscience… then fucking resign! Become Cindy Sheehan (who Democrats now brand a ‘traitor’ for running against Pelosi). Become Jesse Jackson. Lead people in protest outside the halls of Congress rather than capitulate within them. The only reason one wouldn’t is because of hubris.

I know what a Republican does. Like a giant turd in the grass, I know what to expect when I set foot on their side of the yard. But the Democrats should have been better. What does it say about them that a former Ku Klux Klansman, Senator Robert Byrd of West Virginia, became the moral conscience of that party? At the very least, when the Democrats got their majority in Congress they could have thrown a dart at a wall full of crimes and chosen one, anything the Bush junta has done, with which to impeach this administration. But no. Obama and Hillary said it wasn’t the right time, given the nation was at war. Or was it that the longer an unpopular Bush was in office, the more it benefited the Democrats in the long term come this election year? Pelosi went further and flatly said impeachment was ‘off the table’.

Assholes. Big, shit-encrusted, rubbed-raw, dysenteric sphincters. They’re even worse than Republicans; they lure you into the grass with your bare feet on the promise of no more shit, only for you to discover that all that morning dew is actually piss.

The Democrats could have done something to stop it all; in 2006 they finally had the political capital they complained they didn’t have when they were forced to vote for the Iraq war, but they didn’t do a thing to make it right. They’re collaborators, and they’re just as guilty.

Obama eloquently invoked the spirit of King in his inspiring speech the other night, but if he truly in his heart wants to be a reformer, he applied for the wrong fucking job. In the last eight years, the Democrats have shown themselves to be the left arm of a right-handed vigilante. Change, however vaguely or specifically they wish to articulate it, will never come from a Democrat nor a Republican in the political system we have today. It will only come when they foreclose on that old white house at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Bot Fuck

McCain Suspends Campaign to Help With Bailout




Comment by Jody Groves
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

Good for Senator McCain!!!

Comment by Mark
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

Good Idea… I hope they can straighten this out without it becoming another reason for more pork barrel spending

Comment by Peter Sahd
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

This is why McCain should be president.

Comment by Ripley
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

This is incredible. Now THAT’S what I call Presidential. Good for him. Obviously ONE of the candidates cares what happens to this country, even to his own detriment.

Comment by Tax Payer
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

Now that’s a representative for the people !!!!

Comment by KSD
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

He must be about his country’s business. This is truly necessary. Good decision.

Comment by She Tries
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

Now, that is leadership. Go Johnny Go!!

Comment by Jon
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

Good bull!

Comment by Jeff in Bend
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

Great move by Senator McCain. Contributing to decision making is far more important than a debate on Friday.

Comment by Nan
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

What a novel idea - a senator who would rather do his job than campaign. Just watch, though. The libs will say he’s scared and backing down from the fight.

Comment by Tina
September 24th, 2008 at 2:58 pm

I think this is great this is McCain putting country first!

Comment by Snotty McShot
September 24th, 2008 at 23:01 GMT

And so on.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Guest Post from the FUTURE

It is the year 2508. My name is Jeff Titor. And in another pointless exercise of justifying my meaningless existence I have just celebrated my birth with a few of my future friends, drinking cold beer (we drink it cold in future England) and splashing out for some pizza, that one-time peasant fare that your generation ironically adapted into party food. It’s cruel, in a way, but even my enlightened future self has to agree: it’s pretty damn tasty. By the way, I can tell you this about the future: your scaremongers are right. Up here we’re all Muslim, and everybody’s gay. And I can tell you that we pray each day for your souls, five times, right there with our O faces pushed flat onto our plush rugs.

Yes, I am addressing you, naïve savage of 2008, from my gentle dominion of the future because I have an urgent message to convey: amongst you walks a titan of sense and understanding, a man wasted in his current environs… you might say a sharper file clerk than your Albert Einstein. For this man, our gracious host, Snotford Richard McShot, in 2006, the Year of the Bore, ejaculated his rages into the ether, leaving for posterity not just insights into the flaccid thinking behind the actions and decision-making of your unruly age but, most importantly, this conduit for communication from my pedestal to your shit pile. Like your vast cemeteries of nuclear waste, Blogger’s login and password have stood the test of time, and with its ultra-cool Refresh button (you’ll need to wait about 400 years for it), my boyfriends and I can finally have this conversation with you. Now stop wallowing, piggy, and listen to me:

I’ve got a secret for you. You, you ghastly barbarian, are a cunt. You don’t think so, but you are. Even the best among you. Even your mom.

You see, at the end of any story or in any backward glance at history, there always seems to be one moment that sums up all the flaws of the characters involved, the error in their collective judgment, and this moment can be argued from the distance of 500 years to be the portent for how it all went so horribly, unbelievably, sadistically, cockstompingly wrong for you. I’m going to save the explanations and the long lectures and the moral poking and prodding and leave that to you – mostly because I want to go stuff my gender beam into some hot man butts while they’re still drunk in my living room. So, in short:

As you read this, dear pagan, chieftains of your tribe in Colorado have declared ownership over water that falls from the sky and into your living spaces. Think about this. Coloradoans, in your present time, may no longer collect rain in barrels and buckets as they have for hundreds of years because some company has claimed first dibs. Presumably this means you may not even collect the drips in saucepans that filter through the leaks in your roof because your ruined economy and current unemployment do not allow you the financial breathing space to have it repaired.

Why can you no longer collect rainwater? Because that water has been “allocated” by your chieftains to the executives of water companies before it even leaves the clouds. To collect and store rainwater for future use eats into the future profits of these water companies and the future bonuses of their executives. Everyone worries about the future, but in the future we just worry for your souls.

I don’t believe there’s a lot more that I have to point out here. The absurdity should be overwhelming, the response obvious.

The blinding success of this Colorado initiative has spread to other “States” and nations. Soon none of you will be able to collect rainwater because someone else owns it, and none of you will have noticed they had taken it away. It’s not even in your newspapers, that slowly dying animal on the roadside of the information superhighway. No one will notice, but in the future we see it clearly. We see an archduke doubled over and bleeding from his abdomen. We see Helen of Troy being sexed. We see the first large, primordial beasts that failed to run from primitive man. We see an advanced culture shrugging its collective shoulders and giving up on itself. We see it look at each other, from pig to man and back again, unable to recognise a face in the crowd, and choose a lifetime of private masturbation over the symbiosis of a loving, committed relationship with lots of hot fucking.

I will not engage here at this time in a protracted discussion about your ridiculous pagan belief that one man can own water or land. Maybe in another 200 years you will be ready to listen to that one. But for now, your now, as you collect your buckets and barrels and meekly store them back in your shed, just be aware that we here in the future, when we’re not pounding ass and praising Allah, we’re laughing at you.

But remember, please: in the future we don’t hate you. We just hate what you’ve become.


- Jeff Titor

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Anniversary Hate

You know what I hate? I hate 9/11.

Not the event, you understand; the event was far too interesting to be subject to the simple gnawing monotony of hate. It was spectacular and horrifying and amazing and awful and everything else between and beyond. It was a colossal crime and a heartbreaking tragedy, sure, but it was also totally exhilarating, especially for the billions of us who were mere spectators, who didn’t lose anyone in the glorious Technicolor collapse. Stockhausen was right.

Nah, what I hate about 9/11 is all the pampered little shits that keep pissing on about it every fucking year, without fail, like they have suffered uniquely for having watched people die on TV that one time. I’m being slightly disingenuous, of course, for the victims were not just any people. No, these were people with whom our emotionally wounded chums shared naught but a vast landmass, an accident of birth or circumstance, and a vague subscription to an abstract concept called “America”. If it were otherwise – if these had been the citizens of, say, Iraq – we surely would not still be stumbling unawares across these unreasonably tedious festivals of boo-hooing all these years later, these little narcissistic landmines strewn across an internet that already has its fair share of poisonous hazards.

One such hazard is InstaPunk, a group blog written by a big bag of wilted dicks and named for its founder, of whom the word “punk” only applies in the sense that Harry Callahan meant it. It’s no surprise to find that they have milked their precious little tear ducts to produce this classic example of the Remembering Where I Was On 9/11 genre – an utterly contemptible yawn-factory every bit as dull as the Twin Tower collapse wasn’t.

Like practically all of these rambling, self-indulgent snoozefests, it is 6 million words long, yet inevitably amounts to scarcely more than: “We watched it on TV, it reminded me of some movie or other, our phones didn’t work for a while, and we had a bit of trouble getting home”. Well, you know something? Me too, and so fucking what. It’s like those couples you meet who tell those long and skullfuckingly boring stories about how they met, and they’re telling it in that allegedly cute tag-team fashion, and your fucking blood is boiling and there’s just the ripped red and ragged frayed fibre of your last fucking nerve standing between their cooing pusses and the soon-to-be-broken fat end of your beer bottle and they can’t tell that behind your quivering grimace you are silently screaming: “YOU MET AT FUCKING WORK LIKE EVERYONE ELSE, YOU GODAWFUL PRICKS”.

You know what I mean? That’s how I feel about these 9/11 bores.

Go ahead. Read it and tell me I’m wrong. And while you’re at it, think about what an incredible fucking luxury it is to be able to piss and moan about 9/11 for seven years as if it was the only thing that ever happened on the goddamn planet, while the people of Iraq and Afghanistan, made to pay for the Worst Event Ever a thousand times over by a different accident of birth, suffer a new atrocity practically every other day, with barely a moment in between to update their blogs or their Facebooks with mawkish, sentimental bullshit, and without the luxury of thousands of miles of television cable separating them from the horror.

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Thursday, September 04, 2008

I still hate you

That's right. Ol' Snotty's been down for more than a year, battling ulcers caused by the stress of your putrid existence. But I'm back, I'm bipedal, I'm biding my time, biased as ever and bygones will not be bygones. By God, watch this space. 

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

A Trip to Work

Beside me: a woman, asleep, mouth open, huge teeth, copy of Lonely Planet Morocco on her lap. Same woman that was on the train home last night, sitting beside me, asleep, mouth open, same book.


Opposite me: young bloke, gangsta, legs as wide as he can get them, backpack on, hand crassly down his grey sweatpants, won't budge an inch for the person that tries to sit down next to him.


On the platform: a guy in a grey and pink scarf huffing because someone's trying to get down the stairs into the crowd. He had trainers that exactly matched his scarf.


There's no hope for anyone.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Mailbag of Hate

A reader writes:

Hello. I'm new to this whole Department of Hate thing, but I thought I'd chip in and share some things I hate. Not share as in let you have a piece of, no, that would be impossible although quite useful as then I'd have less of the things I hate in my life and you'd have more, which would be fine by me. Ha ha, no, that was a joke. Here is the real anecdote, trust me its very good and very full of hate.

So I am at work and I am doing my best to mind my own business, keep my head down, get on with the job etc but this guy keeps bothering me. He really annoys me, this guy. All day he's been bothering me. I mean, initially, he was ok. In fact, initially he gave me some money, which was nice, but then he just kept hanging around afterwards looking at me expectantly. It was a really awkward situation, what with the hanging around and the expectant looking and everything. So I avoided his eyes as best I could. After about half an hour or so of me avoiding his eyes as best I could, which I discovered was easiest done by shutting mine and singing in like a low voice and stuff? Well, after about half an hour of that he started coming right up to the counter and banging on it and saying that I owe him a hamburger and generally causing a ruckus. Having to deal with weirdos like this at work, this is what I hate.

'Listen,' I told him eventually, after he had gone on banging on the counter for an hour or so and my head was getting sore and the hamburgers behind me were rattling in their chutes. 'There are people here, mentioning no names, who are trying to keep their heads down and get on with their lives and so on and what you are doing is interrupting and spoiling it for everyone, i.e. me' . Unfortunately the guy had like a total lack of sympathy, or ability to empathise with the plight of others such as myself because at this point he started screaming and beating the counter with his fist some more and kept on with this whole crazy me owing him a hamburger thing.



As I am myself not lacking in the sympathy and/or empathy departments I felt sorry for him in a way, and not just because his face was slowly going a horrible red colour, possibly because he was tearing at his skin and rolling his eyes and making these low, weird moaning sounds as he pointed at the hamburgers behind me. I remember thinking, as I munched on my own hamburger, that this guy really needed to sort out his expectations in life. All this unreasonable hamburger-wanting was bound to cause unhappiness and anger and/or distress. You need to reassess some of your goals and priorities viz hamburger ownership, I told him. You need to move 'hamburger' from the box marked 'want' to the box marked 'can't have'. Then you'll be a lot happier. Sadly, he was too busy punching the large plastic clown that stands in the corner of the entrance of my work and crying to even bother paying attention to the important advice I had to say. I suppose this just goes to show some people are just too selfishly wrapped up in their own misery to accept help no matter how hard you try.

I remain yours etc.

Name and address supplied

Do YOU have a hateful experience to report? Email the Department of Hate at deptofhatemail AT gmail DOT com!

UPDATE! In comments, drooling sextagenarian troll Dave "Abe Simpson" Duff attempts unbelievably lame and predictable slight against the Department, appears to soil self in the process. File under colostomy bag mishaps.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

In Memoriam: Jack Palance

NON-SEQUITURS OF THE COMING DOOM


Sunday morning - there's a show on channel 5 about Sophie, the vicar's daughter. At dinner they stand on their chairs and sing "thank you god for this food, thank you god for this food, thank you gooooooo......oooood. Thankyougodforthisfood, dun dun du-dun". Sophie says when singing in the choir, make sure your voice doesn't drown out everyone else's. When the sermon gets too long you just "fiddle with your fingers". Her voice is that of a young Thatcher. She gets bullied because her dad's a vicar and wears a a dog collar. She prays for the bullies at church and tries to tell them that jesus loves them anyway. She has a guinea pig. She is only allowed eat sweets on Sunday at a particular time of the day as a special treat. She is only allowed watch half an hour tv a day and only on BBC programmes vetted by her parents. She only likes spiritual music. She knows "god's true" because "she has proved herself". The theme tune of the show is a strange drum and bass thing. The show was supposed to be about "Rosie, who has autism".

Nicholas Cage's face became odd and his hair became a wire wool wisp after he started calling himself Nicholas rather than Nick. Laurence Fishburne got fat and his face became more pock-marked when he stopped calling himself Larry. And Charlie Sheen's jaw got smaller when he tried calling himself Charles.

I don't trust people whose arms don't swing when they walk.

There are more mad people in Brockwell Park than Clissold Park. I saw a dude in Brockwell Park hiding in the bushes and hissing. He was holding a shower rail. A woman was talking to herself. I allowed myself a moment's hope that she was talking on a hands free kit. She had a bandage dangling from her leg. That was yesterday

Abandoned petrol stations should be a thing of joy, but they are not.

Recently I found myself being genuinely appalled when a newspaper article informed me that DfES was considering allowing kids to write english exam papers in text speak so long as it was clear they understood the material.

Snakes shed their eyelids.

There is a warning on the packaging of Mothercare "fun dough". It says "Remember, babies and young children have no idea what is dangerous or potentially harmful"

Condoleeza Rice. Paula Radcliffe.

Chris Cornell sings the new bond theme song.

Celebrity scissorhands. Sunday Grandstand's theme tune. The Nativity Story hits cinemas on December 9th. "Now... experience the first christmas". Your chopping board harbours 50 times more bacteria than your toilet seat. Peter Andre and Jordan have a single out. It's a cover of "A Whole New World" from Disney's Aladdin. A stylist knows that before something hot touches hair, it must be protected. A diver scared rigid by sharks undergoes shark therapy tonight at 6.30 on Channel 5.

Inside today's Mail on Sunday... a Madness CD called "The Edge of the Universe and Beyond"... Part 1.

Christopher Hitchens. Marmite. Allo Allo.

My brother once put pickle juice on his chips thinking it was vinegar. There's an undertakers in Streatham that looks like a burnt pub.

Someone, somewhere, right now, is giving someone a brazilian wax. That is their job.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Quiz Time: How Rotten Is Rumsfeld?

I hear that Donald Rumsfeld is having trouble sleeping. Time for a quick game of "fill in the blanks", I think.

FALLON NAVAL AIR STATION, Nev. (AP) -- Defense Secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld said yesterday that he is deeply troubled by ________________.

"That's the thing that keeps me up at night," he said during a question-and-answer session with about 200 naval aviators and other U.S. Navy personnel at this flight training base for Navy and Marine pilots.



Any guesses? Here's a few of his greatest hits to get you started:










Answer here.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Good Idea. How 'Bout Some Sort of Armband?

For the love of fuck:

A new Gallup poll finds that many Americans -- what it calls "substantial minorities" -- harbor "negative feelings or prejudices against people of the Muslim faith" in this country.

...

Almost four in ten, 39%, advocate that Muslims here should carry special I.D.


Hey ho. Welcome to fascism, meatheads!

Of course, there are many out there that would snort with laughter at the idea that our sophisticated industrialized societies (not unlike a certain "advanced political community with a highly trained, tightly disciplined police and civil service bureaucracy" discussed here) could possibly be responsible for such mass hatred. Luckily, these will be the same hysterical fucking halfwits that believe that "The West" is under any serious existential threat from a couple of dozen teenagers armed with some funky shampoo and no fucking passports, so their arguments can be safely disregarded like the racist ballhair they are.

Roy Edroso has some more 39-percenters for you in case you’re not depressed enough yet.