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.