Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Snotty McCross-Court-Shot

So, I was playing squash yesterday and was doing really well, as well as a McShot can do in sporty ventures (my Uncle Tag McShot once shot his own eyebrows off shootin at ducks near the Hackney Downs in London and was arrested and spent five years in jail for owning an unlicensed weapon and animal cruelty and was called Whoopi the whole time he was being buggered) until I ran for this one ball that was running along the side wall, a lovely shot from the other side I must say, but lunged and caught it beautifully, WHACK, and smashed that ball back down the court, thumping off the front wall low and back crosswise to the far rear corner, my opponent hadn’t a chance. Thing is, I followed through and caught myself on my left elbow just in between the two knuckley bits with my aluminium/some kind of light weight metal fucking squash stick. Even the nail on my little finger hurt, a burning sensation ran through my whole arm. My vision blurred. I didn’t make a noise, just kind of made a face as if my upper lip was being hoovered into my nose and hoped I wouldn’t pass out or vomit. Or that my opponent would notice, because she was pretty hot.

Just sayin

I hate that

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Tour De Force

Unimaginative and lazy film reviews.

The word "sumptuous" for example. The Guardian is a particular recidivist in this regard. Did a Guardian films search for sumptuous and had 54 results. Granted, some of these referred to Cannes fish lunches and theatre seating plans, but:

Donnie Darko? "Visually sumptuous"
A.I.? "Visually sumptuous"
Original Sin? "Sumptuous"
The Others? Kidman’s clothes…"sumptuous"
The Man Who Cried? "sumptuous"
Madame Bovary? "sumptuous"
The Merchant of Venice? "sumptuous"
Mira Nair’s entire body of work? "sumptuous"
The Bride with White Hair? "sumptuous"
All the Pretty Horses "sumptuous scenery"
La Reine Margot? Christ. "Sumptuous"
Gormenghast? Granted, it’s TV. Fuck it. "Sumptuous"
The House of Mirth? That’s right. "Sumptuous"

And now I tire, but to complete the Guardian reviews we have seemingly anything by Zhiang Yimou.

Hero? "sumptuous"

And what was along the side my 54 search results? A banner for "The House of Flying Daggers" on DVD.

"Sumptuous" said The Guardian.

***** said someone else

"Lavish" said some other knuckledragger

"A masterpiece" someone else probably said and "A tour de force" I’m sure was used somewhere to describe something or other about it. Or maybe that was "Tarnation" or something by Anthony Minghella. (Note the "sumptuous" locations in The Talented Mr. Ripley – according to the Guardian that is)

On the front page of the Guardian film web site even today you’ll find this. And it wasn’t included in my 54 results.

These people get paid to do this. And they get free movies.

However, in the spirit of fair play and just to show that it’s not all the Guardian and that, in fact, they probably aren’t the worst offenders but merely the ones I read the most, check this out.

Monday, April 25, 2005

The World through Mine Eyes

I drew big saggy tits on Kid Rock because I hate him. It's that simple.



HAHA. TAKE THAT KID ROCK.

Friday, April 22, 2005

People of Earth. Wake up.

The whole Pope saga has brought out the Catholic in my co-workers. The Irish have this peculiar interpretation that allows them to absolve the church of blame for its worldwide mega-sins. It’s payback for all the forgiveness that goes on over here. One guy says he got a general absolution from a priest years back no questions asked. He reckons that the church issues "guidelines" rather than dictats and that he can dip into the rules when necessary to discipline his children, but when it doesn't suit he'll sin anyway and ask for forgiveness later. "Hey, nobody's perfect," he says. He criticises the Africans for getting all fucked up with AIDS because they are following the rules too literally, that it’s a lack of common sense on their part. Another thinks that the world would descend into chaos if it weren't for organised religion. It's so bizarre to hear intelligent people talking like this. Our belief in gods is our weakness and limits our evolution as humans. It is a relic of our primitive consciousness when the finality of death seemed illogical and terrifying. Why can't we just grow up?

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Like White on Rice

I know you.

I see you everyday.

You are the girl sitting on the outside seat on the overground rail, blocking other passengers’ way in. You are the guy sitting next to her ejaculating beat samples from your ears. You are the guy sitting next to me with his legs splayed into my area to showcase your hose. You are the girl trotting in front of me in shoes you can’t walk in, your ass swaying like a fault line. You are the guy who won’t raise his umbrella. You are each of the three girls walking abreast in front of me. You are asking how I am when you give me new work before I’ve even turned on my PC. You are the sobbing toddler in the queue whose mother calls him, “Alvin, son.” You are Alvin’s mother. You are the fashion abortion wearing Ray-Bans in the rain. You are asking me a question with your phone to your ear. You are not listening. You are the voice of everyone who calls. You leave excreta floating in the only place where I can be alone. You are always leaving something there just to remind me you exist. You are talking beyond your knowledge. You are talking out of turn. You are turning out to be a real prick. You are the well-read moralist, reading tits on every third page. You are the well-fed writer, feeding off the un-educated. You are the well-to-do leader, not up to doing anything for any of the people I’ve mentioned above. You are hurting many people. You are killing me, man. You are the patriot in your mama's basement beating your keyboard to tell us history dictates we should impose ourselves. You are the historian who tells us history is an easily unpacked box that explains a people’s past and not a version of a story grounded in your political and cultural concerns, reshuffled and simplified to advance your contemporary agenda. You tut behind me. You think I don't hear. You look away as we transact a sale. You host a property program on TV. You bought the bungalow in Biarritz to accentuate your bigger boobs. You bark next door. You sell me Volkswagens. You sell me broadband. You sell me KFC. You sell me instant coffee. You sell me little gelatin candies. You sell me more KFC. You can sing a rainbow, too.

And me?

I, too, am an asshole. But I work for the Department of Hate.

And I'm on to you.

Monday, April 18, 2005

A Patch of Turbulence

Air travel. Now there's something I can definitively say I despise at this point. I find myself in the grip of hideous jetlag having just returned from a week in the homogenised south-western USA. What used to be an exciting privilege is now a stressful and humiliating ordeal, an increasingly unnecessary evil.

The first stage is debasement. We are now treated like livestock in airports; queuing up between the barriers for endless security checks, shuffling though metal detectors in our socks while holding our trousers up, explosive puffer tests, swabs, wands, interrogation, x-rays, fingerprinting, mugshots, inspectors with latex gloves ransacking your baggage.

What I have particular beef with is that airlines have the cohones to tart this mode of transport up like it's some sort of luxury. Twee uniforms, pompous pilots with cock sucking first officers, first class, premier class, business class, DVT class. Just give me the drugs and pack me into a crate, I want to be unconscious throughout. There's no need for you to have to feed me crap and show me edited reductions of movies. There's no need for me to have to talk to the other hapless souls trapped in this tubular purgatory. Just get the fucking engines up to the max and get it over with.

I just want to sleep.

Blair and Howard up a Tree F.U.C.K.I.N.G

Michael Howard is a Thatcherite demon. We all know that. Everyone remembers the Poll Tax and his other disastrous forays into government policy when Thatcher, that murderous evil witch, gave him job after failed job. Speaking of whom, when the fuck will she die? Christ, her son’s a criminal, her husband’s dead, her best friend Pinochet is a genocidal maniac, she’s reviled the world over…surely it’s time to slit her wrinkled wrists and fuck finally off.

Back to the election…what’s sickening about Labour’s election campaign this time around is that it does not recognise any other parties but the Conservatives. Their whole schtick is to frighten the voters with flashbacks of Howard’s record and the Tories disdain for everything normal people believe in. “The Labour Party: Britain, forward not back” Labour’s tag line for their whole campaign shows this more clearly than anything else. “VOTE FOR US OR THE TORIES WILL GET IN! THEN YOU’LL BE SORRY!”

But here’s the kicker – it makes no difference.

If you like the killing innocent people in illegal wars, detention without trial, fear-mongering, lies, big business before regular people and the environment, nepotism, despotism and fascism – vote Labour.

If you like all those things and you are also a racist isolationist homophobe – vote Conservative.

There are other parties out there, even if the big two don’t recognise them.


Friday, April 08, 2005

Master of the Universe, Deceased

Today we lay to rest The Holy Father, Ioannes Paulus PP.II, Karol Józef Wojtyła. Third longest reigning Pope ever.

Meanwhile victims of his insane preachings on contraception die slower, poorer, more painful deaths all over Africa leaving their children infected or orphaned. Luckily for them the AIDS virus arrived just when old Karol was getting started.

Mr. Wojtyla’s legacy?

Misogyny and AIDS.

His epitaph?

Here lies Karol Józef Wojtyła. He got off easy.

A eulogy from Snotty? Sure, why not.

Fuck you. Fuck you eternally you crazy fucking bastard. Say hi to Hitler.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

To Whom it May Concern:

Folks, I've just discovered that you can download a hate charging dose of anger through the telephone lines. A recent change of address has required me to enter the call centre matrix. I am currently mainlining venomous hatefuel from the scumsucking dogs over at NTL at a rate measurable only in megawatts. The longer I am hooked up, the closer I get to becoming a Marvel super-villain.

"Thank you for continuing to hold, we appreciate your patience." If only they knew.

They tell me they need my cancellation in writing. They don't mean an email, they are talking paper and pens here. Apparently nothing can happen without my original signature, you know, for security. This tech giant, with their call centre out in India, requires me to write them a letter.

You know the longer I ruminate on the various transactions I have with these utility companies the more angry I get. It’s the dishonesty that I hate the most. Why don't they just have the balls to tell me that their service is specifically designed to maximise their profits and that my level of satisfaction is of secondary concern? I would respect that. It would like George Bush telling the world, "Yeah, I'm going over there to oust Saddam so I can control more of the world's resources. Damn straight I want that oil, what are y'all crazy?" It remains despicable I agree, but at least it's honest.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Give me my September Rage

Hey Mom, I'm gay, and my wife is pregnant, but we're going to abort it ourselves, and Dad, oh Dad, I forgot to tell you this interesting anecdote I once read that turkeys are born with testicles in their gobbles and for the first few weeks after hatching they scamper around with a little scrotum dangling from their beaks until it whithers and recedes, and sister, your boyfriend called and said something about joining the army...the Iraqi Army...ho ho...ha ha...he he...and I forgot to tell you these things every other day of the year when I'm usually skulking and sulking from work to the sofa to bed to work to the sofa to bed to...ho ho...ha ha...he he...motherfucker, I'm a really funny guy, a riot, a laugh, a ham, a clown, a joker, a real nut-busting card, and get this guys, ready, ready- it's all a joke...ho ho...ha ha...he he April Fool...I kill me!

Jesus. All these conservationists of bland tomfoolery who dust off the prank phone calls, silly fibs and hokey high jinks every April 1st annoy the shit right out of my bowels. I hate hilarity. I don't care even if it is funny. Contain your merriment. Choke on all your emphysematous delight. That's what really cocks me in the back. Can't you see your laughter only makes me want to punish you?

If there's one thing I hate about people more than just being in my goddamn way all the time it's the tired hacks among them. People who stop you for a little giggle as you move your mind and body through one more agitative day with only the promise of another. Why are you telling me Mr. Don Key from the zoo called and I need to ring him back. That took seven seconds of breath you'll wish you had after I punch you in the stomach. Who are these people? What happened in their little pool of uterine soup that made them think this is right? Day after day I struggle with these people, and somewhere along the line they were given their own day? How about a day for me? February Fury's Day? The December Tantrum? September Rage? I have no days, no weeks or months, not even an hour when I can be me and say what I wanna say and laugh at your face and her gait and his wackiness. Wackiness turns my skin to nettle. Just give me an hour. In 60 minutes we can all celebrate what I feel inside and then go back to shifting through our pointless routines and appropriate responses like cling film over the umbrage and emptiness in us all. One hour, and we can once again dedicate our time to our decay. Like nothing ever happened.

I'm looking ahead, see. Thinking forward. Staring down this asshole of years provokes me like a hard bite on the cock, and giving me this hour really is better for all of us.