Monday, November 28, 2005

Community Announcement: Part One

The Facilities Manager at my place of employ has just forwarded the following police alert. He describes it as a message regarding a "particularly bizarre scam". I disagree with him on all counts.

eAlert Message from The City of London Police

Message Start

There have been a number of recent incidents of a male approaching members of the public offering to sell them cigarettes at discounted prices. The money is handed over and the male then leaves on the pretext of returning with the cigarettes, but is never seen again! This male is a convincing con-man, and has a likeable and amiable persona. He is very distinctive looking and has been described as an 'Uncle Albert' look-alike. He is 65-70, approx 5'0'' tall, chubby, with white hair and beard.

Message End

This is not a warning about a scam. This is a warning to all of us that there are dangerous idiots in our midst, and the only thing "bizarre" about this man's scheme is that it appears to work. It's a mystery to me how anybody stupid enough to be taken in by this stunt has survived long enough reach an age where they might be in charge of a wallet.

"Hey, uh, just gimme the money and I'll be back in a minute with the stuff, I promise - in fact, why don't I take your mobile phone as insurance?"

Be careful out there this winter, people. We are surrounded by fools.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Your Weekly Briefing from the Language Commissars

Following our recent spirited back'n'forth, the Grand High Wizard David Duke, uh sorry, Duff, has made good on his promise and this evening presents his learned thesis on the problem of racism (or, more specifically, the problem of being repeatedly labelled a racist). G'wan have a looksee, and tell me if you think the UK craposphere's greatest ego clarifies where he stands on the issue.

Compare and contrast:

"I have been taken to task for admitting my habit of using slang expressions for other peoples, such as, 'Mick', 'Paddy', Taffy', 'Paki', 'Yankie', 'Jock', 'Froggie' and so on."


"I don't call my Jewish accountant a 'Yid', not just because he's a friend but because I actually like and admire the Jewish people as a group."

Yes, that about seals it for me.

UPDATE: Larry over at Tampon Teabag duffs up Duff some more.

Saturday, November 26, 2005

I Would Like To Give Thanks... money, because without money we would have no annual Thanksgiving ceremony.

A little Thanksgiving history, if you will.

The Thanksgiving feast actually began as a Thanksgiving fast. It was an annual ritual just before the onset of the harsh New England winters, through which the autumn harvests rarely lasted. People went hungry and died. And so to commemorate those who had died in previous winters and to express solidarity before the upcoming struggle, colonial Americans would fast for three days: the weekly Sabbath, the Day of Humiliation and Fasting, and the Day of Thanksgiving and Praise. At the time it began, in the 1600s, America was populated by Puritans and religious extremists (unlike today), so worshipers in the fast would humble themselves before the Lord and thank Him for sparing them the previous year. As immigration made the country more diverse, however, the fast gradually took a more secular bent.

A century later, once the American insurgency, bolstered by the French navy, sufficiently demonstrated that regime change starts at home, lawmakers in the new government moved to make the annual fast an official holiday. One wealthy landowner stood before the plenary session of the assembly and proclaimed that the country had grown beyond such sufferings. The country was gaining wealth and territory, it's people doing better. Surely, he said, this is a time to indulge.

And in a vote that few realised would establish the character and behaviour of the infant nation for centuries to come, lawmakers raised their drumsticks in support of indulgence.

The 'Aye's had it. Sure, they kept a fast day to appease the fundamentalist movements, but the fast largely lost its significance, lasting until the 1860s when President Lincoln finally emancipated our waistlines along with the blacks.

Which brings us forward to today. When I look at all that America has on its plate today, I am thankful that I am as far away as I can be from its table without having to learn a new language.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

DUP: Dangerously Ugly Phuckers

Inspired by the news that the Reverend Dr Evil Ian Paisley's own daughter Rhonda is threatening him with a sexual discrimination suit, I thought I’d take a wee stroll down memory lane and revisit some of the Democratic Unionists Party's finest moments of the last decade or so. You might perceive a lot of gayness in this post, but I want you Freudians in the back to houl' yer wheesht. Remember, these are the creepy God-fearin' weirdos that tried to "Save Ulster From Sodomy" in the eighties, and as everyone knows, you could barely get from your house to the bus stop in Northern Ireland back then without being sodomised at least twice. So come take my hand, and join me on this nostalgic journey of sports massages, biblical smiting and unbelievably ugly cunts.

Say a big gay hello to Ballymena councillor Maurice Mills, who just this month claimed that Hurricane Katrina was sent by God to punish the homosexuals. The hurricane hit two days before the annual Southern Decadence Festival (possibly the G-Man mistakenly consulted a 2003 diary?) then proceeded to completely miss New Orleans' gay district in the French Quarter, famously taking out a shitload of black neighbourhoods instead. If he’s so angry with the gay people, then why is he taking it out on the poor black folk? Maurice? Perhaps you can shed some light on this. "This abominable and filthy practice of sodomy has resulted in the great continent of Africa being riddled with Aids." Ah. Okay. Anything else? "Asia was hit by the tsunami because of the continent's people not being Christian. God had marked their cards." Righto. Uh say, Maurice, how come it looks like you’ve just dipped a thumb in yer arse and smeared shite on your eyebrows?

Well how do you do, Sammy Wilson, ex-Mayor of Belfast? Some of you may have had the misfortune to catch the front page of the Sunday World in about 1996 which gave unfriendly prominence to the glutinous gluteus of the disgusting monster on the left as he frolicked bollock-naked in France with his then girlfriend. You will understand, therefore, my trepidation upon entering the search terms "Sammy Wilson+naked" into Google in order to find news stories mentioning the incident, but as it turns out, the results are quite interesting. Why it almost seems as if people are looking for excuses to horn the word "naked" into any article they write that features our Sammy. For shame!

How's about ye, Arthur Templeton? Arthur became infamous last year after being convicted of the harassment of a gay colleague. Said harassment, in typically classy DUP style, ranged from the simple use of the word "queer", to bending over in front of his victim, patting his arse and saying "Here you are, John". I’m not even fucking kidding. Arthur later claimed to have been bending over to tie his shoelace, and rebuffed his critics with the immortal lines, "It's political correctness gone mad", and "Some of my best friends are gay". We can all be thankful that the only picture I can find of him is that one in the car, for the bloated Jabba the Hutt fizzog behind the wheel demands some kind of protective barrier between us and it, and your computer screen isn’t gonna be enough.

What-ho, Paul Berry? Unfortunately, Paul was but a lad when the Save Ulster From Sodomy posse were out rounding up rump-wranglers, which makes the following story all the more tragic, and by tragic of course I mean knee-slappingly hilarious. Four days before the general elections in May this year, Paul arranged a rendezvous at the Ramada Hotel in Belfast with a male masseur, whom he had met on a gay chat website (and who was, unbeknownst to Paul, an understandably furious gay rights activist). Demonstrating that he had at least some idea of what his political party are supposed to be about (they ain’t just bigots when it comes to homosexuality, no sir!) his first remark to "Gary was reportedly "I hope you’re a Prod". Then he said something about baby oil. The next thing was even better: the last time he had received a massage was in Barbados, he said, by a "wee darky girl". Berry later claimed that the incident was entirely innocent and that he was merely receiving a "sports massage" for an injury. According to "Gary", however, Berry's ailment involved a feature of his anatomy not normally associated with sporting activities outside of horizontal jogging.

And we bring the story full circle by introducing you to the charming Ian Paisley Jr, who looks all set to continue in the Big Man’s footsteps as Bigot-in-Chief, surprise surprise. Hello there, Ian? What’s twisting your melon? "Most people in Northern Ireland find homosexual relationships offensive and indeed obnoxious and I say that from the position of research I have done." (Uh, "research", eh? That's cool. Now why didn’t Paul Berry think of that? "Sports massage", indeed.) I guess it would be kind of a funny coincidence if all of this actually meant that the DUP were closet cases, because from the research I’ve done I can say that most people in Northern Ireland find the DUP offensive and indeed obnoxious as well.

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen: the DUP. What a shower of absolute cunts.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Revisiting Scott, Department Mascot

From one Scott to another: I hadn’t checked in with Scott "The Pout" Sala, Minister of Information at Slant Point, for a while - at least not since he pussied out and banned comments (for which read "dissent", for which read "ridicule") like a big girl’s blouse - but the other night I grew weary of smashing my face off the corner of the knackered Ikea tables in my living room and decided to stop by Scott’s place to really get some pain going.

The first thing that caught my eye was this post on the riots in France ("So, are the French Muslims the new Blacks?"). It’s no surprise that Slanty is firmly in the "Muslim violence movement" school of analysis (having obviously never seen this film predict the scenes in Paris ten years ago) but he makes some interesting comparisons between the French situation and the American civil rights movement in the 1960s.

"Stay tuned to the Arab thug after effects of the new revolution", he warns us. "Muslim Power groups, Muslim gangs and the equivalent of Muslim gangsta rap music".

Yeah, uh, okay. And all that other stuff, like employment and voting rights, a stab at equality, the freedom not to get fucking hung out of a tree – that sort of thing? Apparently not worth a mention.

It’s funny, I expected Sala’s anti-Muslim stance to be fairly bald-faced, but I have to admit that I was a little taken aback by how casually he reveals his disdain for the legacy of the civil rights movement in his own country. If only them uppity blacks were still in the cotton fields we wouldn’t have to put up with all those 50 Cent records, eh Scott?

Further down the page there’s a post beginning with this sentence: "First, let me start by saying Rosa Parks was a hero", a phrase which starts the alarm bells ringing immediately, being that it is an only slightly reworked version of that old classic, "I’m not a racist, but". Here he complains that black people have the audacity to raise the spectre of institutional racism, a charge that is "irresponsible" even if it is true (which, as Scott himself admits, is at least a possibility – although only after he has derided those that suggest so as "conspiracy theorists").

At this point I realize two things: first, that Scott Sala really is an unbelievable idiot, and second, that his favourite creepy Orwellian buzzword is "irresponsible", most frequently attached to some unflattering - or not sufficiently adulatory - media story about The Glorious Leader and The Party. Look at these search results, for the love of fuck.

Sala is the worst kind of apologist, engaging as he does in a mere pretence of critical analysis before dropping to his knees at the ass of Bush and the dick of Cheney. The most embarrassing recent instance of this was his enthusiastic endorsement of the Harriet Miers nomination, and subsequent enthusiastic endorsement of the Harriet Miers withdrawal, as if he had advocated the latter the whole time. The man has no opinions of his own, simply swallowing and regurgitating whatever The Party hands down without question, like a good little propagandist.

In summary, Scott Sala is a ridiculous fucking asshole, and I would’ve told him as much at his own place if he weren’t such a bitch to go with it.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

I Know You Are But What Am I?

Remember when you were a kid? When you were having an argument with another kid, and you realised you'd been caught talking a load of bullshit and the other guy was properly taking you to task for it?

What did you do? There were a few options. You could start throwing punches at the smart-arse little fucker. You could shit in your whips and run away. Or, if you thought you were a bit of an evil genius yourself, you could try this one on: "Ha ha", you'd ejaculate smugly, "I was joking. You thought I was serious". Then you'd point and laugh and all your idiot friends would join in. You'd get one over on your confused opponent and your buddies would think you were pretty cool, but a little bit of you would die inside every time you resorted to it. Remember that?

Well, the other day I witnessed a grown man use this very same technique. A grown man of some renown, too.

Look here. Scott Adams, creator of popular foreskin-headed cartoon character Dilbert, weighs in on the fabricated evolution vs. intelligent design debate. His central point (or so he later claims) is that each "side" misrepresents the arguments of the other, such that poor Scott can't work out who to believe. Therefore, neither side is credible to him. Aside from the fact that there is no shortage of credible sources of info on evolution, it should be noted that if you need to be taken gently by the hand before you can see the difference between a vacuous "god-did-it" argument that has not and will never produce a single testable hypothesis on one hand, and the most well-established and experimentally verified scientific theory in the world - the backbone of modern biology, and the product of 150 years of peer-reviewed scientific endeavour - on the other, then no amount of credibility is going to save you. You's a idiot.

Anyway, along the way to making his revealing point, Scott repeats a fair amount of creationist disinfo and ID propaganda (although always taking care to dissociate himself from the points being made: "Intelligent Design advocates point out..."; "Darwinists often argue that..."). And what a surprise! Someone calls bullshit.

In this case it's biologist PZ Myers, proprietor of Pharyngula, erstwhile Panda's Thumb contributor and all-round stout defender of science from the hordes of uninformed "both-sides-of-the-debate" slackjaws. He has the audacity to take Scott at face value, and with no small amount of irritation sets about debunking each one of the fundamentalist talking points that Scott has lazily rehashed. Fair enough, no?

Here's where our retrogressive schoolyard debating techniques come in handy. Scott's reply? It's a classic case of "Ha ha I made a trap and you fell for it!", much to the delight of the drooling ID yahoos that appear to make up the bulk of his fan base. He appears to think that the entirely understandable irritation of one scientist proves his contention that neither side of the debate is credible (further demonstrating a deep misunderstanding of the nature of empirical evidence and the scientific method).

There's some bullshit claims that PZ misrepresents him, although you can judge that for yourself by reading the relevant posts. For what it's worth, here's my favourite example (and I'll stick to direct quotes lest Scott accuse me of twisting his words):

Scott: Darwinists often argue that Intelligent Design can’t be true because we know the earth is over 10,000 years old
PZ: I have never heard anyone on my side of the debate make this argument
Scott: PZ declares that no one has EVER argued against the young earth argument to refute ID

Who's misrepresenting who? You decide.

As a result of all this tomfoolery Scott has indeed succeeded in demonstrating two things, neither of which I imagine he intended:

1. If you drop your bags and take a big old shit all over a man's professional discipline - a man who has to deal with the likes of this from people who have never produced one shred of scientific work in their life - he's gonna get fucking annoyed, whether it was all some big hilarious joke or not. This doesn't mean he is not credible, just that he has had it up to here with ignorant buffoons monkeying around with his life's work. A bit of a fucking no-brainer, really.

2. 95% of Scott Adams' commenters are soft-headed tits, stinking up the joint with a shitstorm of barely literate whooping and high-fiving. If the ultimate point of this exercise was to expose his readership as a gaggle of slope-browed knuckledraggers, then I take it all back. Scott Adams is a fucking genius. If not - well, the joke's on him, I'm afraid.

Inevitably, when the aftermath of one's prankery is one pissed off biologist and a wankstain of back-slapping intelligent design halfwits, there's a suspicion that Scott has already taken sides in this bogus debate. Yet throughout all of this, Scott has claimed that he doesn't believe in intelligent design (he even posted this nugget twice to make sure). However, he also says that he doesn't believe in "Darwinism" and has been very careful not to raise any points without qualifying them as someone else's opinion. I don't know about you, but it strikes me as a little cowardly, to exploit the sincere and passionate opinion of a professional scientist for yucks without having the cojones to reveal one's own point of view.

So, how about a little honesty? Why don't you tell us what you really believe, Scott?

Monday, November 14, 2005

Lord, Lay Hands On My Gay

A short while ago I received the following letter to the Department offices and was most upset to hear the kinds of internal strife that people devoid of the singularity of hatred experience. The contents of the letter are rather disturbing, so please, read with discretion. And pity the weak for they are fucking morons.

Dear Mr. McShott

I've been putting this off for a long time so I'm finally writing you a letter. I’m the founder and chairman of Focus on the Family, a licensed psychologist in the state of California, a licensed marriage, family and child counselor in both California and Colorado and author of books such as "Bringing Up Boys". I also sponsor one day events that aim to cure homosexuality through the help of Jesus Christ Our Lord.

Getting to the point, I don't know if I have a serious problem or a passing (I don't know the word for it). All through my life I have acted and look much more like a girl than a boy. When I was little, I would always wear finger nail polish, dresses, and the sort. I also had an older cousin who would take us into his room and show us his genitals. I'm afraid I have a little sodomy in me. It was very hard for me to write what I just did. I don't want to be homosexual but I'm afraid, very afraid. That was hard to write too. Let me explain further.

Through my higher grades in school (I now have a Phd) kids always called me names (gay, fag etc.), and made fun of me. It was hard. I masturbated (I guess) but went too far. When I was little (not that little) I tried to more than once to suck my own penis (to be frank). That sounds very bad and looks even worse to read it. I pray that nothing is wrong with me.

Very recently I have done such acts as looking (maybe lusting, I pray so hard that I wasn't) at myself in skimpy underwear. Whenever I wear it I feel a like sexual sensation. Yesterday in the bathroom (in front of the mirror), I wiggled my body very rapidly, making my genitals bounce up and down. I get a little bit of that feeling mentioned above as I write this. After I did this, I immediately asked forgiveness of God, went in the shower but did it again there. I prayed more and felt very bad. I talked with one of my pastors and told him at that point I probably preferred a man's body over a woman's. Now that was hard to say! He said he didn't think anything was wrong with me (I don't know how else to say it. He apparently thought it was passing), but I feel very badly and want to know why.

Please help me.

Dr. James C. Dobson Phd

Friday, November 11, 2005

Now Hands That Do Dishes...

…it’s an ulcer on the backside of my left eyeball, this biting cancerous rage that has my hands shaking, eyes wide and my frown stiffening and hurting and creasing my forehead, this offence, this insult, these dishes that clank and bash and screech, this water that thrashes about my waistline, this soapy quagmire that wrinkles my skin and makes everything feel like sand, this steam, this grease, this back pain, this smell of laboratory autumn apple blossoms, this clumsy knocking of an upturned sudsy glass, this leftover teaspoon. I hurtle bricks in my head towards imaginary people and walls. I scratch gouges in my terrible ears, I heave vomit into the sink and punch the surface with my bloodied fists, spraying disgust and rage over the previously gleaming tiles. I head butt the wine glasses, I shower myself in shards of hatred. I howl and gurgle and hiss, words so dreadful they fear to leave my throat, they loiter in my mouth and make unseemly animal noises and peer about my teeth for a safe route out, out and out. They rush together and it’s a frightful cry of abject misery and fear. I lean back and breathe and my shoulder hurts, this back pain, I’m having a heart attack. Hardened ketchup. Displaced sticky head hair and old mayonnaise and a slump of resignation.


I like to consider myself an equal opportunities hater. The first thing I ask myself about any new government policy, bonehead publicity stunt, or Kate Bush record is "Do I hate this?" The answer is usually in the affirmative.

There are, however, three things that I hate above all (aside from, of course, this sort of bullshit right here) and they are all linked together like a circle jerk where everyone is ejaculating hot sticky plumes of fucking cold hard cash. In no particular order, then:

1. The fashion industry
2. Cosmetic surgery
3. Advertising

As far as advertising goes, I second what Bill Hicks said. And there's a London Underground poster for a cosmetic surgery clinic that sums up everything I hate about that shit: two identical, pneumatically-breasted brunettes, checking eachother out approvingly post-slice'n'dice, the message being "Hey you! Yeah, you! Fatty with the harelip and the crooked sneb, yeah, that's right! Now even you can look EXACTLY THE MOTHERFUCKING SAME as absolutely everybody else!" Honestly, it's fucking terrifying.

And as for fashion, just waft your weary eyes over this chilling shit. Unbelievably, it's written as a humour piece, but it is actually a fucking balls-achingly creepy tale of Dawn Of The Dead-style mindless automatons, "eyes glazed, jaws locked", written in that grotesquely self-important hyperbole that's so common in the industry. Hesitation, we are told, is "fatal". The protagonists are "steely, informed shoppers, who knew their quarry well" and ... oh, the whole thing just makes me want to shit broken glass.

I think the reason I can't quite put my finger on what exactly it is I hate about the whole pointless, vapid and self-congratulatory business is because I despise every single little thing about it. I hate the fucking pop-stars that go to the fashion shows and act like they are anything more significant than an exclusive club where the poor people aren't. I hate the constant declarations of such-and-such a smug superfluous scumbag as "genius" and "visionary". I hate that it is staffed by the idle rich sons and daughters of musicians and hotel magnates foisting their self-indulgent little hobby on the rest of us like it's anything but a giant waste of time and resources - like it's something important, something groundbreaking - and I hate they way we swallow that steaming arse-swill so readily, too.

So fuck J-Lo. Fuck Gwen. Fuck Tom Ford. Fuck this fucking asshole. Fuck the lot of them, and fuck us, too. Fucking cunts.

Matter of fact, the only thing I like about the entire fashion industry is Gianni Versace getting shot in the scone, but that was far too long ago. Might I suggest that when the US next fancy testing out their next lot of nasty, disfiguring weapons they give the women and children of Falluja a break for a minute and just wait for the next pampered pop starlet to open up shop in a Covent Garden store? A couple of blasts of that white phosphorous shit oughta do the trick.

Cheers, darlings.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

This Is What Passes

Hmmm. What are we to make of this?

If you were a novelist writing a political thriller set in Washington, and you decided to name create a character who was an African leader seeking a meeting in the Oval Office, and you named this character "President Bongo," you would risk being called a racist.

Today, in the NYT, there is a story about the chief executive of Gabon meeting Bush in the White House last year. His name? President Bongo.
Posted at 05:25 AM

UPDATE: What the fuck? He's still at it!

in Africa.
Posted at 05:03 PM

NAME GAME [John J. Miller]
Too bad her name isn't Bongo.
Posted at 05:33 PM

Shut up, man!

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Send In The Clones