News, in real time.

Korea to build 264 billion dollar tourist resort in the shape of the iconic hammer and sickle because, a spokesman says, “we fucking can.”

Our top reporters were sent to interview the great minds in charge of design and funding for this monolith, the self proclaimed “eighth wonder of the world.”  When our journalists were closing in on Cybrotech Red Divsion, the headquarters for this operation, they were picked up by local guides and driven by military escort. Cameras were asked to be turned off and no photographs were to be taken of the plans for the resort.  Interviews were very brief and unrecorded due to the hectic schedule of the important men involved.

“Korea just wants to give Western guys a big surprise. If you take photo, you ruin surprise! Korea not so bad, we build resort. You Westerners come here and eat burgers” said one representative of the corporation. “Communism was good, but we embrace Western culture now.”

Well folks, you have seen it here first. 2 sneak preview photos of the construction of the up and coming “Red Terror Resort”.

Construction of, what we are told is, the pool area. 

The dog park.

My best friend and I are the ultimate nationalists.

For the next several months, may you have daily rage. You can't work your lighter while wearing gloves. Your mp3 player wheel or phone won't work with your thick woollen gloves, making your hands look like novelty space mittens. It's too warm on congested transport to be wearing all of these layers, but I don't have the space to take them off. 

Was it ever really warm? Will I ever be warm again? November is the time when you forget that such a thing as sunshine ever existed.

Everything is shit. Everything is shit now until next year. 

To warm your weary spirit, attached is a picture of my brother. Behold the true face of fear.

Borehammer

http://www.reddit.com/r/Warhammer/comments/1133w7/new_to_warhammer/

Gonna have me a baby.

http://www.reddit.com/r/BabyBumps/comments/1133fl/period_has_stopped_concerned_i_might_be_pregnant/

Soup. A horror story.

http://www.reddit.com/r/food/comments/10vu18/soup_a_horror_story/

Stephen, the man who talked to owls.

A wise man once sat by a bridge. Not for the first time, and not for the last time. This in fact, was a bridge that he frequented. I suppose if you had an easily pleased eye for aesthetics, you might say the bridge was picturesque and cute. It stood over what would be generously called "a river." The differing lengths of reeds and grasses jutting up from the silty banks almost hid the shameful brown colour of water. This wise man did not really sit at this particular bridge bi-daily for the view though. He came down to visit his friend, Owl.

This is where the story could change completely. I could begin writing about how this wise man was an addict. I could consult different websites and come up with a clever scientific name for a pill that has newly come to the streets. In great detail, I would summarise both the effects of said pill, and set up a premise for the rest of the story. The reason I could do these things is because there is character named Owl. It's obscure enough to either be the nickname of someone who would be a drug addict offering to perform fellatio behind a Supervalu, or an terrible nickname for a member of an indy band. Lo and behold, for ye have been tricked. The web of deceit I have spun as a spider of lies has attached itself to puffy front of your red North Face jacket. In fact, I chose to take this tale in a rather more innocent direction. Owl is the name of an Owl. A particularly friendly owl who for the remainder of the story, I will be anthropomorphising.

This wise man went by the name of Stephen. He was wise beyond his years, indicated clearly by his constant brow furrowing. His genius did not lie in his knowledge of sports or maths, but in his almost encyclopaedic knowledge of things that nobody else cared about. Much like a rambling homeless person carrying around an array of trinkets. To us, the contents of his homeless wagon appear to be trash and scrap, but to this homeless person, it is both his treasure and his legacy. Stephen carried this information around like the homeless person in question carrying his trinkets, lest it be lost to the fires and ravages of time. You could be talking about anything from current affairs to mainstream television and he would still find a way to relate it back to a post modern short story he had read or an obscure Kung-Fu film that he had watched in his room at an unspeakable hour, shoving seeds and black coffees in his person via the mouth.

For the readers who like to become fully immersed in the experience of the characters, who can only do so by knowing every small detail, the Owl's full name was Owl The Desert of the Real, which for my own convenience I will be shortening to just Owl.

Stephen would sit and chat with Owl for hours on end. Owl would perch himself on the wall at shoulder height and stare without prejudice at this man who would pour out confessions and secrets. Quietly, the owl listened before spending time considering his reply. There was never any need for haste. Stephen would sit patiently and sip cans of Druids cider, eagerly awaiting a reply. Each time, Stephen got his hopes up that Owl would reply differently, but no. Same as always, Owl would merely hoot.

The owl definitely did not have a name. The owl could not understand anything that Stephen would tell it. I'm not quite sure why the Owl felt so comfortable being in such close proximity to a person, mayhaps Stephen smelled of a cosy woodland area. Stephen was a crazy person who conversed with owls and anthropomorphised them. If seen it public, Stephen should be avoided at all costs.

Jurassic Park IMDB review which will hopefully get past moderation...

An absolutely excellent film. I remember seeing it for the first time when I was quite young. The childlike excitement still blooms when I watch the film to this day. After watching this many, many times as a child, I really wanted to be a palaeontologist and discover dinosaurs. I had dinosaur mania.

Unfortunately, I don't have the brains to do anything requiring the level of consistent academic success to gain a college degree, so my dreams of sifting through various strata and finding prehistoric beasts never came to fruition.

Although not knowledgeable or successful, I do paint pictures. I always have painted throughout my life. I recently re-watched this excellent film and decided to paint something from it. I hope you guys enjoy. Although I'm not off finding new and exciting discoveries for you guys, I am giving you the next best thing - UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL PAINTINGS OF DINOSAURS.

Any further queries, send emails to raptorexpert@gmail.com

.

Thanks to Demo for the line "first as tragedy, then as satire."

You awake one morning. The usual time, the usual shit. A myriad of thoughts shoot through your already burdened mind. You shake off such triviality as thinking. Your room is the same. Having no reason to be cautious or defensive, you slowly rise from your bed and groggily walk down the stairs. Everything around is as it has always been. The same banal landscape paintings line the tackily wallpapered walls. The same bits of fluff and old coffee stains are crushed by your bare feet as you walk down the hallway into the kitchen. The door has a wooden frame but is mainly made up frosted glass. Through the out-of-style greyish glass, you see the outline of a small framed figure. A high pitched singing voice fills your ears, a voice you recognize immediately as your mothers. You hear this voice as a maternal homing beacon, or perhaps a siren’s wail, and turn the door handle. The lazy shafts of morning light shine through the window, revealing the unhealthy amount of dust and dead hair follicles dancing in the stillness of morning. Your mother still sings over by the stove, still faced away from you. You yawn yourself out of a jaded stupor and realize you have not wished her a good morning.

“Hey mom, good morning” you croak in a voice thick with sleep. With your left hand you reach into the pocket of your faded tracksuit bottoms. Momentarily, you fumble through the items within. A mish mash of pocket lint, keys, small coins and plastic from cigarette wrappers.  You chuckle dryly to yourself, seeing the mess within your pockets as a metaphor for the mess of your everyday existence. You don’t quite know why you chuckled, but you do so again. It was funny first as tragedy, then as satire.

Your mother turns, but something isn’t right. The lady who bore you for nine long months, and gave you existence, has changed. Where the spark once sat in the murky pools of azure that were her eyes, only a black dot remained. So slight was it that no one but a son would notice. Yet her countenance and figure remained the same. The golden shimmer from her short hair still radiated and complemented her pale complexion. You look in the pan your mother has been slaving over feverently since before you entered the room. The family cat lies in the pan. The organs of the poor creature lay spread out across both the cooking utensil and counter surface around it. Blood drips from every fixture. The guts themselves are laid out in such a way that they resemble medieval portents. Your mothers head jerks sporadically from left to right, as if her spine is momentarily rubber. She begins to walk towards you, her hands outstretched.

Posted this one on OLX recently

Seeking 21 y/o brunette

Hey,

hpe u read dis site. nt sure if its a popular 1 really but its wrth a shot! ws out on d lash lst night with a few of d lads nd i ran into u on dominick street. we got to chattn and i feel we had kind of a connection. cnt remember tbh, was pretty locked. nt only wer u pretty locked, u were jst pretty! abso stunnin girl nd would luv 2 see u again. i'm real glad we gt 2gethr so early in d nite too, gave us way more time 2 have d craic! nyway, had a deadly time wit u nd would luv to meet up again. 

and just 2 say, i tink u left ur pink g string on dat lawn lol. was wonderin wether 2 put dat in r nt but just so u knw i didnt take dem r nythin!

nyway, if u see dis, drop a pm or sumthin

thanks 4 reading xxxx

My sitcom

I am going to write a sitcom. It will be called either Mooncop or Roborotica. Mooncop is the touching story of a police officer named Trey from Monaghan. Although his accent is annoying and almost unbearable to listen to, he has a kind heart and his job provides a good service to the community. I know what you’re thinking, Monaghan should be left to their own devices so they eventually eradicate themselves, but that just isn’t fair. You can’t single Monaghan out like, for there are so many other counties to plot genocide in. I honestly couldn’t pick which one I want destroyed the most. He is the father of one child and is married to a girl who is good looking by Monaghan standards, but on a city scale, she is fucking puck. This will be a subplot throughout the series in which he tries to enter his wife in “America’s Next Top Model” esque competitions on the moon. Although her opponents are disgusting moon beasts, she cannot win. Every episode will have a section done in montage format showcasing her various competition losses. Anyway, the recession becomes increasingly bad and to combat this, Fine Gael sends Civil Servants into space. As part of a training group, Trey is sent into space to traverse and colonize the moon. While there, he goes on all sorts of wacky adventures with other civil servants. Mooncop is a very clever name because he is a cop on the moon. One other character I have planned is a teacher who is also sent on the mission. He is from Longford and loves board games and vegan food. It is a constant source of irritation for everyone else on the moon as he constantly complains about the lack of vegan cuisine and the rights of animals. He is an annoying, but loveable hero. The real twist in the story is when Trey falls in love with a self-aware nose hair trimmer named Barbera (The way the name is spelled is a pun) half way through the season. This is why I had the idea to call the show Roborotica. I’m not sure how most stations feel about hardcore man/machine penetration, so it will be probably air on Channel 4.

Powers

Yesterday was another day of the heat wave. I guess it’s pretty good practice for when the nuclear winter comes. Maybe exposure to these solar rays will harden us and make us leathery beasts, perhaps leaving us less vulnerable to the extreme heat of atomic power. When the people from colder climates are flayed skin from bone by radiation, I will gain superpowers. Attached is a picture of my superpowers. You shouldn’t show this to anyone, to avoid jealousy.

Concerning country folk

As I imagine it, a plume of grey exhaust splutters noisily from the back of an old Opal Corsa. On a quiet country road, the roaring of the ancient car pierces the balmy silence of late night. Not too many exciting things happen in Borris An Ossery, a countryman would be the first person to admit that, but like most other anti-urban field slickers, they have a swelled sense of civic pride for the backwater that they live in.

Although it may seem like an arrogant statement, and also one predictable of a Dubliner, fuck-all happens outside of the pale. The hate towards us Dubs is very deep-rooted and vehement, but we can hardly contain our laughter with mouths full of caviar and chai latte. Sure enough we rimmed England and became a powerful Primate City, but is there not more to admire in prosperity than there is in having a threatening amount of Brown Sauce pumped around your body and going out on a Friday night with the high hopes of fingering someone under the age of 40?

I'm sure all of my pseudo-British assumptions are incorrect and unfounded, but trying to get a rise out of a Bog Bitch or a Turf Eating Grass Daddy is one of the finer things in life.

I'm sure my country friends and acquaintences have never really crept into a barn on a cold and dreary November morning to bump uglies with various barnyard critters, but its a hell of a better mental image than the idyllic and almost Americanized Irish farmer lifestyle.

I'm fairly sure that using science and surveys it was found that every woman on the West Coast of Ireland is named Mary. They are very fond of the name. I would imagine this is because it does not have many letters and thus avoids confusion. I'm sure Hedge Schools are brilliant in their own right and I'm sure the teachers are experts in their own field (Geddit?) but that form of education is not going to compare to a lovely good protestant schooling in Trinity.

I recall the first time I went to Galway with a friend to go to a punk show. We sat on a bus with no toilet for nigh on 5 hours. The first half of the journey had me terrified. I thought that once I left the civilized order and safety of Dublin, my world would become a Deliverance-esque nightmare. I shivered nervously in my seat, pondering important issues such as "How many Traveller's dicks can I take before they leave me alone?" and "Do they have the internet once you get past Meath?".

When I find myself thinking of Dublin, I don't exactly think of a shimmering jewel of a capital city where people have monocles, cars that run on vegan food and bees on strings to sting the lower classes, but I do think of a colourful accent, a certain simple eloquence and a tacky neon night-life. Although at heart I would like to imagine my city as a place where I wake up to the smell of cooking bacon, followed promptly by fellatio from a machine with customizable settings (patent pending). I can be content with a hangover and those Cadbury diabetes bars. Also water. Water is fucking golden when you're hungover. I will speak more of this in a moment...

Just to veer off for a second... the golden Cadbury heart bypass squares are the best thing on Earth. If you told me that for ever one bar that was consumed, a host of starlings would fly into power lines, it would not slow down my intake of sugar saturated dream puffs. Not even for a second. At this stage of unhealthy consumption, I must be their best customer.

I'm sure country mornings are awful. This is how I picture them anyway...

Picture the scene. You wake up crazy hungover after a night of Stella pounding, Jager chugging and a holocaust of cheap Chinese food to finish the night. Although you only went to bed in the early hours of the morning, you have woken up around the time that an elderly person rises for Mass. Within seconds the pain has begun. You ask yourself questions. "At what stage in the night did a rat or rats crawl down my throat, become lodged and die?". You sit up hurriedly, thus dizzying yourself. The posters of the GAA superstars and page 3 girls adorning the walls seem to fuse together in the haze. This gives you a great idea for a sitcom. Being the entrepenurial countryman/woman that you are, you reach for some paper on your bedside locker. You realize that you are sharing your bed with a middle aged woman. Nothing new. Average country weekend, but you wonder at what stage she lobbed the gob and where? Most likely Supermacs. The horrific site of this portrait of midlife causes you to forget the sitcom idea. What you need now more than anything is water. Water. So simple. Everything will be ok once you have obtained H2O. Well, TOUGH FUCKING TITS. YOU'RE IN THE COUNTRYSIDE SO YOU CAN'T DRINK THE FUCKING WATER. One/several cow(s) have died in the water recently. An apathetic farmer drank silage and pumped harmful chemicals into the water. Excuses excuses.

How do you know when you're in love?

Love is when your girlfriend thinks Belfast is a county. Even though you are a cynical pseudo-intellectual, you don't mind. Ah Summer. Bringing out the best in cunts since forever.

I posted on a classifieds site

I didn't know that there were "Missed connection" forums in Ireland. They are my new favourite thing ever. Once again, posts are moderated. Hopefully this will make it up. The post is entitled "Girl from the Roisín"

"Hey!

I really hope you see this because I'm really into you. We were both in the Roisín last night at the Dott EP launch. I saw you while they were playing and I thought to myself "She's the one for me", Even though I'd been drinking cans in the toilet all night, I bought myself a Jack and coke for courage. You were laughing at chatting with your friends, some of whom I would have banged. You were the one that really stood out though I'd say you are about 5"10 and of average weight for a girl your size. You have really piercing blues eyes and blonde hair. Long, but not traveller long. You have a rare kind of pretty look. It screams "I'll put out, even though I'm intelligent and have self respect".

Once the band finished I stumbled across the room towards you. The band were very good by the way. I probably would have banged some of the girls in the band too. There was easy pickings in the Roisín that night.. For once.

You didn't really notice me at first as I bobbed and fell between people, half pointing at you. When I reached you, you smiled as I slurred sweet nothings in your ear. One thing led to another and you know how it is..

Basically I wanted to get my rats off and I told you that I was wearing a johnny. There is no point lying now. I wasn't. I can only hope you weren't ovulating. Its not often you meet a girl who is pretty and lets you bareback. If you want to meet up at any time come and find me. I'm usually in the Roisín. I am a really swell guy when you get to know me.

I hope the recount of events jogs your memory, you were pretty drunk after I horsed those bacardi breezers into you.

My name is Tom by the way. Looking forward to hopefully hearing from you"

More buzzing off the Reel Big Fish fans

http://www.reelbigfish.info/forum/topic/base-humour

Chatrooms

Those mad chat-rooms with the webcams and the instant messaging at the same time, I dislike them. I would go insofar as to say that I hate them more than anything else in the history of the world ever. Madness. Its all very high tech and futuristic.

Its strange really. If you showed an old man one of those sites, for example, chat roulette, he'd be so shocked by being able to see the person he was speaking to that he might die. He'd act excited and begin babbling the names of all his grandchildren, children and eventually war buddies. He'd look around, slightly bemused and try to stand up. Another product of our generation he is not used to is his downfall. He stands up straight but the swivel chair moves at the same time. The confused old man falls and he calls for help. His breathing and speaking patterns change erratically. He fumbles around with useless fingers, more accessories than digits. He tries to reach for the phone but realizes there is no cord. Cordless phones - another new fangled invention. Modern technology is killing this old gentlemen. Strange how he is shocked after being conditioned to violence during the wars when he watched his good friends become expendable cannon fodder. In the end, he waits for death. His chav grandchild comes in and takes his bus pass and the remainder of the money in his wallet after calling him an "Irrelevant old paedophile".

I'm sure its brilliant to be able to chat to people overseas that you don't know and immerse yourself and learn about a foreign culture, but that isn't really what people want to do. Fat men want to stroke their bizarrely curved penises to anonymous people via webcam. I thought, a rather naive thought really, that stuff like this only happened on chatroulette, BUT NO. I went on one for crusties last night because I'd had a few drinks. I chatted to this sound guy about music and drinking and reading, it was all well and good until in the corner of my eye I saw something moving. I immediately shifted my gaze to the bottom left hand corner of the screen. Although my laptop was tilted which somewhat shaded what I saw, it was very clear that I was looking at a skinny guy in blue jeans standing in his sitting room waving his penis back and forth through the air like a condom filled hand soap and marbles. Oh Internetz? Why?

Needless to say I cracked one out to this fine specimen and then went to sleep.

Not really. It angered me so I went off the site and stroked away the rage on my cat Louis, named after Louis from Interview with a Vampire. He strolled into the room, the big fat ball of black fur that he is. He didn't stroll so much as waddle. He jumped up onto the bed with great difficulty. His immense bulk shook the bed as he plodded towards me, saliva streaming from his mouth. Do all cats drool? Louis does this a lot. It looks very, very, very much like I planted a money shot on him, or that he is full retard. People probably wouldn't put me using the cat as target practice past me either. Note to self - Rectify cats face with tissue. I now realize that saying "I stroked away the rage on my cat Louis" sounds like I jerked off on him, but I didn't. Gentleman's word.

Ah Film people..

I posted my review of a film on the Empire forum... This ensued. Hopefully I can get some more comments from this guy.

http://www.empireonline.com/forum/tm.asp?m=3408040&mpage=1&key=&NID=0#3409129

Hopefully the beginning of fun..

on the Reel Big Fish forum!

http://www.reelbigfish.info/forum/topic/hi-there-you-guys?replies=1#post-26181

The dream is dead

My dream of waking up today and wrecking the heads of Against Me! fans across the globe has been crushed like a babies head after a skateboard trip through the hammer victory. I have been banned and all my threads had been deleted... It was good while it lasted.

My lovely post on the AM! off topic forum

I live in Ireland in a pretty rural area. I have more chance of shitting gobstoppers than finding another punk around here. I generally use forums for chatting to other like-minded individuals, but sometimes responses can be slow and we all know how long a day can feel. yeah, so if anyone wants to chat about anything and everything, I'm your guy.

I'm 23 years old and my name is Thomas. Been a punk since I was very young after hearing the Sex Pistols on the television. Besides music, I am really into working with my hands and trying to invent things. I have quite a small skill tree at the moment, like a character at the beginning of an MMORPG, but I'm slowly learning. My love of creating machines and quirky devices is brilliantly combined with my hatred of urban foxes. My dad is a bin man and thus sees the fox as an enemy. Bin liners aren't very difficult to rip, especially if you have pointy teeth. My dad doesn't wholly support my punk rock addiction LOL but he supplies me with sheet metal, wood and other materials. Just recently I made a really cool trap for the foxes. You put a bit of chicken or any leftover meat from dinner on a plate and leave it out. From then on, its just kind of a waiting game. When nightfalls, and the fox says goodbye to his fox family to go out scavenging, that it when you must be ready. Wait until the fox comes up to the plate and starts to eat. You then hop out from your hiding place and cave its head in with a slegehammer. It isn't really a trap that I made, but I did cook the chicken myself and supply the plates myself.

If anyone wants to chat about music/inventing/the culling of foxes. PM me


Forgot to mention - am vegan as well!

More buzzing off the AM! fans

http://www.againstmeforum.net/t4895-its-quite-clear-now

My insightful post on the Against Me" forum concerning Tom Gabel's sex change thing..

ENJOYINGS

http://www.againstmeforum.net/t4894-i-gots-me-a-theory#168976

The finest gift I ever received.... IN VIDEO FORM

I hope someday this brings the same wonderment and glee to my children as it does to me now. Its a pink tyrannosaurus that my girlfriend bought me in the early learning centre in Edinburgh. It is the best thing I've ever gotten, ever. If anyone out there who knows me ever wants to buy me a gift, something relating to dinosaurs is better than whatever shit you were going to get me before reading this. Don't buy me books you think I'll like. "Oh, he likes books, I'd say he'll love EVERY DAN BROWN NOVEL AND TOM CLANCY BOOK EVER WRITTEN." No, just fuck right off. Dinosaurs. Kthx.

Barry The Apathetic Panda meets Mary the women's rights moo cow

Barry sat against the tree that he usually sat under. In one hand he held a large stick of bamboo, and in the other he held a refreshing mojito served in a hollowed out coconut. Although he was extremely apathetic and pessimistic, even the animals who held him in low regard agreed he had swag. The sun was blinding, even in the shade of whatever the fuck trees are plentiful in China. For hours, Barry had considered moving from his spot to somewhere more comfortable but in this world, apathy reigns. This was like any other day, Barry stayed consistently drunk and saw the same fools going to and from the watering hole.

All of a sudden, the silence was broken by an unfamiliar sound. The animals close by Barry's "chill spot" turned and looked around with bemused looks on their faces, but Barry just sat where he was and took a sip of his mojito with a loud slurping noise, followed by the kind of belch only a bachelor panda could do. The sound came again - "Mooooooooo".

From out of the dense undergrowth, a cow emerged. A large picket sign was tied to her large body with a sign saying "Bitches be equal". Sure enough, it was a sign stolen from the "Female Dogs Oppression Free Independents Circle" but it carried the same message for all female animals. The other animals read the sign and approached the unfamiliar, non-native animal. Questions were asked, answers were given and debates ensued. Seeds of discord were being sowed all around Barry's chill spot, which he did not appreciate. He knew someone new had arrived, and he had glimpsed her picket sign from the corner of his eye, but he had not taken the time to read it. Finally shitfaced from mojitos, he fell into a deep slumber.

Many hours passed and he awoke. All of the other animals in the forest had learned a lesson that day. The female animals had taken it upon themselves to study more into women's rights and feminism, and the men would from now on be more concious of the way they acted towards the opposite sex, but Barry had learned nothing. He felt slightly hungover, which annoyed him to no end. His mouth was dry and tasted of mint leaves. Maybe he should have gone down to fetch some water and hangover bamboo, but he just didn't care. He fixed himself another drink and prepared for another day of basking.

The boredom of unemployment breeds creativity

Blinding amounts of wanking and drinking (sometimes related, sometimes unrelated) have gotten old at this stage. My penis feels like a sausage covered in Pritt-Stick due to the stifling heat in my room, thus wanking is uncomfortable. Drinking causes me to be hungover which I'm not in the mood for right now. After hours of aimlessly browsing the internet, and making up back stories for the people that post the lulz, I grow weary and decide to get creative. I will now write a series of children's stories under the Alias of Thomas Sinclair. The stories will revolve around the adventures of "Barry - The Apathetic Panda".

Here is a picture of said Panda. You can clearly see the bemused and somewhat grumpy look on his face. He was forever cursed to wear this face when the Taiwanese child finished the stitching and packed him into the box hurriedly as his foreman rang the bell signalling the end of another payless workday. The look is not grumpy enough to indicate immediate action on the party which angered him, but grumpy enough to pass for extreme apathy. On his adventures, he will meet hundreds (three or four) of characters such as William the safe sex wolf and Mary the women's rights moo cow. Children will not physically be able to turn the pages due to the excitement hitting them full in the imagination, causing them to be in a state of semi-retarded glee. Their small hands will tremble with delight as Barry travels across China meeting non native animals, but fuck it, their kids, they care about the flora and fauna which thrive in China about as much as they care when they piss themselves. Come, kids and adults alike, open your mind and most of all, be delighted. Watch this space.

Rotten Tomatoes Mad Max 2 review

This film has everything an action movie/dystopian sci-fi fan could want - Cars, wasteland warriors and Mel Gibson before he got very angry at the Jews for unknown reasons. Despite Mr. Gibson's clear newfound love of huffing PCP and trying to start race wars, the Mad Max films are quite untouchable. This film is my personal favourite, partly because of the life lessons I have learned from it. Before I watched this MASTERPIECE, I was a regular person like one of you, but now I am a trained killing machine.

As a younger and more naive individual, I always thought I would die being anally probed to death by aliens, or sick in bed from a computer virus which became sentient and spread to humans, but I never thought I could die in a wasteland that was once earth. This film really opened my eyes. I try to look at it as a documentary about the future and a sort of survival manual.

While you unprepared pigdogs feast on steak, use Twitter and go to work everyday, I am hold up in the "Batchelarium". Its mostly a hut made of scrap metal, but repeat testing has proved it impenetrable. Sure, a few cats had to die to make sure the trip wire and pendulum trap worked, but you'll be eating the cats when the Mad Max future comes, so fret not. Tinned goods are the way forward. My reflexes are catlike, once again from repeat testing using cats (there are a lot of strays in the area I guess).

This film taught me how to become a survivor. A true wastelander. You'll be eating my dust when I drive away with your gasoline someday.

My review of Million Dollar Baby

I just posted this to IMDB, and it is pending approval. I thought it was a no holes barred review fest, and everyone would be posting pisstake ones, but no. The reviews are moderated so I doubt my high octane thrill ride review will make it. So... enjoy!

Million Dollar Baby (2004)

Excellent film, 10 May 2012

It isn't often I give a film 10 out of 10! There isn't an "E" in the film title, so I can't make the second rate joke of "The E must stand for excellent" so I'm thinking of doing "The M must be for magnificence". This film came out in 2004, and even though I consider myself pretty up to date on modern films/films that contain the grizzled bear-like head of Clint Eastwood, I didn't get around to watching it until 2009. I know if there is one thing I like to see in user reviews, it is a little bit of background story. I was at a gig where a load of punk bands were playing, but my girlfriend got too drunk and wanted to go home. We went to hers to watch a film. The bus journey was average, definitely not as good at this film, which is MAGNIFICENT. I wanted to watch the film "Willow" but as it wasn't available for eye-tasting at that exact juncture, we searched for another DVD. We found this film and decided to throw it on. We only saw about ten minutes of it, and then I got a blow job. I saw fleeting moments of the film when my eyes opened as I neared climax. I thought this was supposed to be a sad film, but it got me some suck suck. Definitely recommend. It is clearly a babe magnet. 20/10.

Ah sure, its only fitting

I will throw my own band to the lions that inhabit the Colosseum of bollocks, salivating wildly and ever-waiting for the next victim to be thrown to them. If you like people with zero musical talent or integrity, you will most certainly be listening to the right thing. Like intermittent sound? We're the band for you.

http://screwworldorder.bandcamp.com/album/scizzle-world-ordizzle

Shit that is somewhat bollocks

OUTCAST.


http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1396219/

So... Outcast was a film that popped up out of nowhere, unlike my cock after I've had more than three drinks. I don't know exactly where I saw it advertised, but it was a horror website anyway, so I felt compelled to give it the 'aul IMDB look over. Almost immediately I saw the words "Irish" and "Traveller". Word recognition truly is a wondrous thing. I figured even if this film wasn't up to my stupidly high standards, (which I only have with films, not women) I'd get a kick from the badly done Irish accents.Within seconds I was torrenting it, drool streaming from my open mouth and rainbows spraying from my eyes with excitement. After seeing "Snatch" when I was younger, any film that contains scenes with English or Irish travellers is going to be memorable.

I don't know what the general consensus is on this film, but I enjoyed it. Not as a horror movie, but it was entertaining. The inner city youths in the film and their over the top violence could have brought warmth to the most marble of hearts. "Oi, look what I've brought for you, ya mongo cunt" being the stand-out quote of the film. The accents aren't as bad as something like Darby O Gill, which of course I was thankful for. The usual horror violence is there, and the first scene in the film has boobs. I count this as a positive. The action sequences are few and far between, but work well when they pop their softcore gore heads around.

James Cosmo is some sort of traveller wizard in this film. That was probably the best sentence ever. I often wake up from dreams smiling. Dreams where sentences like "James Cosmo is traveller wizard" are read on the news. I like James Cosmo and he plays a semi-interesting character in the seven minutes of screen time he is given.

The effects are kinda gammy, but not bad enough to make this a B movie.

2.5 out of 5. Watch it, don't have high expectations. Enjoy it for what it is - BOOBIES. Note that I probably gave this a lot more because the characters are supposed to be Irish.

Shit that isn't bollocks again..

A stream of my awesome girlfriend's bands first EP. Its deadly. Listen to it. SHIT THAT ISN'T BOLLOCKS.

http://www.nialler9.com/13956-premiere-listen-debut-ep-popical-islands-galway-band-dott/

Drink/hangover/repeat.

Consequences are bollocks. They really are. From small things such as drinking cans and then being hungover, to bigger, more painful occurrences, like punching someone in the face and then the realization that said offender is probably going to hit you back. In the heat of the moment, one does not ponder these things. There is no yesterday, and no future, only the single burning emotion and adrenaline of the moment.

I really used that opening paragraph to draw you in, like a sweaty paedophile shuffling around the community centre on a Wednesday at half three, with a bag of Haribo held in one hand and enough chloroform to put down a bear soaked into a jay cloth, luring little Timmy back into a red Ford Focus. In this case, the red Ford Focus is my writing. Rather than diddle your bumhole, I'd just like people to read the words. I don't really want to talk about proper consequences for serious things. I mainly want to talk about hangovers.

A regular thing that both my body and mind have adapted to is the consumption of huge quantities of cheap alcohol. Especially in the past months where I can no longer afford lavish drinks like 10 euro buckfast. Aldi has been both the creator and destroyer of worlds and dreams. Wine and cider for criminally cheap prices, it's almost impossible not to spend all of your pennies there. A bottle of Baron St. Jean and a two litre bottle of something that resembles Seven Up for under a fiver. I swan back home after the uneventful trip from my house to the golden city of wine. I arrive home and guzzle down my white wine spritzer, like a real man! The alcohol pisswater I've bought mixes quite well with the soft drink pisswater. I always thought by mixing two bad things, you'd never really get a good result, but once again expectations, I've proved you wrong. Sure, it tastes like it was brewed by a rather cheerful homeless man in his binbag brewery, but it does the job. Eyes closed, down the hatch (Gay jokes welcome) and well on the way. Like a Roman patrician I stumble around my humble abode, taking nibbles of all food morsels in sight and slug down more pisswater. My stomach shouts and almost begs me to stop, but when have I ever listened to my bodies warnings.

I plonk myself back down on the uncomfortable wicker couch, sweaty from dancing to the greatest pop hits of the nineties, my throat somewhat scratchy from screaming along to Cyndi Lauper songs. Girls do indeed just want to have fun. By this stage, post-pop drunkocaust is what I refer to it as generally (That's a lie. That is the first time I ever have or will use that expression.), has left me tired and ready for bed. I turn off my laptop and stumble up to bed, failing to be quiet at every step, twist, turn and creaky floorboard. At this stage of the night, getting to bed without a new shitty haircut or a badly done tattoo, I'm counting myself lucky. In some sort of drunken flur of genius, I decide I can in fact read a lot more than while sober. Sixty pages read and its off to sleep.

I wake up disgustingly early, because life is terrible. The half eaten bowl of chilli con carny sits beside my bed. I don't remember bringing that up, or eating it. The sixty pages of the book I read are completely forgotten. The hammer of the God is landing heavy blows upon my cranium, keeping me stooped and unhappy at all times. Paranoia and angst hasn't set in, I feel that ribena and coffee will lead me through this bleak valley of alcohol induced sickness. After the morsels of food that I feel I need are forced down my throat, the ass heavens open and rain down liquid shit into the poor toilet. Relief and pain at the same time is truly a wonderful feeling. For the remainder of the day I feel somewhat hollow and out of touch with the world. Is this reality? Is it real life?! I fucking hope not. Are these horrible side effects and consequences worth it for one night of drunken pop-madness bliss? Yes. Yes they are.

The days I don't drink, when I go to bed, I hope that I'll wake up feeling fresh and have a stretch. As I stretch, clouds of beautiful butterflies will fly in through my window and form in a smiley face pattern on the wall. Heavenly, fresh ground coffee magically appears beside me and I feel I have a renewed vigour for creativity and life. Alas, no. I wake up really late, feeling sluggish and overtired. I waste my whole day looking at funny images on the internet. I feel shit either way, no matter what state I'm in when I go to sleep.

Cans till death.

I'm not really that much of a burning bollocks head.

Although this blog was primarily set up for me to destroy people and things that I don't like, I'm not all hate. Ninety percent of my insides are boiled with rage at the most insignificant things. At the best of times I feel like a really old veteran being insulted by a youth with his trousers down too low. That kind of rage that makes it difficult to form sentences. When all you can do is just clench your fists and scream on the inside. Acid pumps around my body instead of blood, similar to a xenomorph, but hella less cool.

There are in fact, things that I think are absolutely incredible and mindblowing. Music, David Attenborough, walking, dinosaurs, animals, flowers, books, poems, blowjobs, steak, lasagne, chips, silly haircuts, things that come from the sea, coffee, drinking copious amounts of cheap booze. The list goes on and on. No one really wants to hear about the good stuff though? People don't want to hear about your nice date to the botanic gardens, they want to hear about how one of your balls burst while you were on fire as a result of spontaneous combustion on the bus. There is something thrilling/hilarious about the misfortune of others.

I guess over the past year, the things I have found I love the most are books, Blade Runner, Mad Max 2 and bacon double cheeseburgers. Everything kind of revolves around my love of these four basic things. Other good things I see, or other fantastic things that occur are only bonuses.


I am a kind of half scrooge?

Dundrum shopping centre

Nobody like crowds and really busy shopping centres. That's just how it is. This hell-hole is very, very different. Almost lovecraftian in its extreme nightmarishness. People stand still on escalators, rising slowly but surely to the different floors. Embodying everything that is wrong with a generation. I like to compare the separate floors to the different levels of hell from Dante's Inferno. Mayhaps it is not the layout of this terrifying structure, but those who dwell within, that truly make it a temple of sloth and envy. They bicker and they gossip  as they glide on dead wings from one shop to the next. Clawing with long, spindly fingers during the sales, ravenous with the thoughts of discounts.  Perhaps descendants from those who once sinned in Sodom and Gomorrah.From the stunning amount of harpies seen spiralling around the cavernous hole, one would think it was an abyssic lair from Greek Myth.These beasts do not have horns, tails or the ability to create flame. These are a different manifestation of older nightmares. In place of scales, fake tan covers the disgusting faces. Powdered lips contort upward into something resembling a mocking smile. In place of a barbed whip or a trident, the demons carry Iphones.

Be warned traveller, steer clear.

The students that live three doors down

Oh, oh oh. The students that live three doors down from me. Hopefully I'll become an internet celebrity, and while I'm being sucked off by the finest African Eunuchs and drinking salted goat cum to gain immortality, they will read my scathing posts about their shitty lives and how they annoy me. They'll sit there unhappily reading this in their student kitchen, cans filling every space, leaving no vacancy. Crunch crunch crunch goes the dry, milk-less cereal in their mouth. Coco pops without milk because Fintan drank all the milk at a cocaine party. He kept down 6 White Russians, or so the frat party legend goes. They will laugh as they read, agreeing with me and showing their hungover friends. "HAHAHAHA" they will say. Before they realize its them I'm talking about. Dry coco pops will spray across the room, like a tumult of soil erupting as a mortar lands. "THIS FUCKING POV IS TALKING ABOUT US!"

I'm ALL about hedonism. Do whatever you want to keep you happy and on the edge. If you want to have sex with bears while drinking Yop mixed with speed, I'm fully supportive. My disgustingly addictive personality and love of excess renders me incapable to slagging their parties. Not exactly the type of parties I'd go for, Britney Spears sing-a-longs at four in the morning. We all love that sometimes, but not most nights of the week. Sing along nights should be rare, like a girl who loves anal. We've all stood there, with the thousand yard stare. The glazed expression of a man who couldn't possibly drink another can of druids. Suddenly.. those familiar notes... The solider springs into action, slurring the opening words to Bohemian Rhapsody. We have ALL done it. Just not every single session.

As I said, I'm all for party all the time but playing football while drunk at four in the morning? WHAT?! At four in the morning at a session I'm eating all of the bread in the house and trying to coax someone into sitting on my face. I can say with one hundred percent certainty that I have never stumbled out of the bathroom, wiping sick from my face and shouted "PENNOS IN THE GARDEN LADS!". If you are going to do the party, loud music, make-the-neighbours-hate-me student life, do it right.

You fuckin' cunts. I can hear that horrible rubber ball that you have smashing against the wall late at night. I would rather hear moaning orgasms and can crushing competitions. At least my loss of sleep is at the expense of someone having a rip roaring time and seizing the benefits of youth. Not getting fit and actively competing in sport.Your camaraderie makes me sick.

The Wicker Tree. BOLLOCKS.

I finally sat down and watched this film with a friend last night, after seeing the trailer and having my occult dick hardened over it about two years ago. I could never find it to download (woops, I mean buy on DVD...) on any of the big torrent sites, but last night the stars aligned and the film downloaded, quick as a sober virgin.

This has nothing to do with the "Nicholas Cage - Rampage! Woman Punching Fest" that was released in 2006. The Wicker Tree boasted that it had Christopher Lee - pretty much the deal breaker that made me sit down and watch it. I had to find myself in a particular mind-frame to watch this film. I didn't want the viewing to in any way skew my memory of the brilliant original, or tarnish the cult horrors reputation.

I drop the file in VLC so its louder than an alarm during a hangover. My expectations aren't very high, but I still can't help but feel somewhat excited. The title sequence rolls on and the film properly begins. That's pretty much where it started to get terrible.

The main characters are two American born-again Christians. One is some sort of John Wayne wannabe/inbred hick and the other is a ditzy, unattractive (That shouldn't really be relevant - but I'm a cunt) blonde girl who turned her back on a life of sucking fifteen dicks an hour to afford jewellery to preach the word of the lawd! How touching.

Two main characters?! NO NO NO NO NO. The first film played off how isolated Sgt. Howie is as he journeys around Summerisle searching for Rowan Morrison. Of course, Summerisle being an island also helped to reinforce that Sgt. Howie was completely alone with no friends to help him on this primitive and savage place, that God had seen fit to abandon. The Wicker Tree, having introduced two characters within the first two minutes, had me disappointed already. The film wasn't set on an island, but in mainland Scotland, albeit a rural area. The sense of isolation was COMPLETELY gone from the film. At this stage, I was sadfacing tears of diarrhoea and dragging my nails across my face to try and make it stop.

If there was one thing I did not want to do on a Tuesday night while sipping the finest Spar wine, it was watch two overly naive and somewhat thick Americans get sodomized by belligerent Scottish heathens. I've just realized it sounds somewhat cool when you put it like that. Maybe I'll try this version - I DID NOT WANT TO WATCH A CORNY MODERN FILM MADE FROM THE AFTERBIRTH OF AN AMAZING CULT HORROR.

The leader of the "Pagans/Heathens" in this film is a man who looks almost identical to Ben Kingsley. I spent perhaps eight minutes regaining my horror boner and thinking about how brilliant it would be to see Ben Kingsley schooling the Americans. While I daydreamed about him going "Sexy Beast" all over those filthy Christians, I missed most of his opening dialogue, and then realized it wasn't him. Once again flaccid and not far into the film, I gulped down a large measure of wine. Throughout the film, as I sipped on my Spar labelled South American piss and ate bourbon creams, I felt like Henry the VIII. Judging the film and everyone in it, like a petulant, paranoid monarch. I didn't kill anyone though - not yet.

So. Fuck. No Ben Kingsley. Blah blah blah things happen. The whole film doesn't feel much like a horror. It most certainly doesn't feel like an occult film whatsoever. What am I watching so? I put on this film to see gratuitous orgies by the light of the moon and babies being fed into bonfires! TICKLE MY OCCULT G SPOT YOU FOOLS.

I could get over the terrible acting at times because this Ben Kingsley 2 lad was pretty good whoever he was... But then the bad thing happened. The Bad Thing. It was here! Christopher Lee was going to come and kick all sorts of ass. He would come like a Valkyrie from the sky on a horse made of Mars Bars and cigarettes. He'd show up and drink cans and lick tits. He would be the Duke Nukem of this film. Kick ass and take names Christopher Lee, just like you did in the original Wicker Man. Now, I know that Mr. Lee is very old at this stage, so I questioned myself. Had I set the bar too high for him in this film? I lowered my expectations... Maybe if he pulls a Saruman and casts one fireball, I could be content. Just one measly fireball. Anyone can do that. If you filled Joan Burton with enough burning toilet paper and black rum, she could probably conjure up a mild Hadouken and some third degree burns. BUT NO. No spells, no anything. He was in the film for about.... sixty seconds or less? The writers didn't even have the initiative to give him brilliant, unforgettable dialogue or to get him to go off on a shakespearean soliloquy. Christopher Lee was standing there, against a country background that looked blue screened, talking to a child/adolescent with a big fat face who was trying to paint a bridge. I thought Christopher Lee might have dropped the hand, or kissed him, just SOMETHING to make the scene unforgettable, but no.

So the film has failed me. Dead in its tracks, failed to wow me in any way. There was very few nude scenes - Occult horror needs nudes! I'm just a sexual deviant though.

They didn't show any violence or gore. I'm not a sick gore merchant in any way... but after being made to sit through the dialogue of those vacant-headed Americans, you really do want to see them skinned and salted.

This hasn't tarnished the reputation of the original in any way. If you haven't seen it, I really, really recommend watching it. I suppose if you are a massive fan of the original, you kind of have to see The Wicker Tree in a obsessive kind of way, just to finish the collection in your mind, which is exactly what I had to do.

I came, I watched, I slandered


Where. Is. Rowan. Morrison.

Blogs.

Like anyone with a mind and the ability to be critical of everyone but yourself, blogs piss me off.

Wait, wait. Hold up. This guy is complaining about blogs in his blog? Once again, I have proved a worthy candidate for the windowlicker of the year award. I have my tickets for the shortbus ready. There is only one word to describe this huge dent I have made in the cosmos - BLOGCEPTION.

I don't want to read about your problems hipster. I would like to see funny pictures of cats, and pictures of the blog authors being hurt though. Maybe if all blog posts which contain feelings ended with a catastrophe, the world would be a more just place?


Take for instance the blog of a fifteen year old emo girl, or what I think blogs like that look like - "Today was really bleak. My mom totally woke me up at ten. What a fucking wh0re. I went to school - what a fucking conformist, capitalist, mind-rape factory. When I'm old enough I am TOTES fucking dropping out. ZOMG. Oh well, toniteeeeee me and V-Jay are gonna watch episodes of Freaks and Geeks back to back #stoked!"

I don't know if I'm re-reading that and thinking its brilliant because of repressed feelings that I'd like to be a fifteen year old RIOTGRRL, or that I just think I'm hilarious. Either way, I feel I have summed up a whole generation by simply swearing a lot and using bad grammar.

BUT, if we take that blog post and throw in a catastrophe, its certainly more digestible, like a biscuit soaked in tea.

"Today was really bleak. My mom totally woke me up at ten. What a fucking wh0re. I didn't get out of bed, bcoz I a independent ho. I didn't realize I had left the coffee pot on, and a fire started in the kitchen. I was practising by pig squeals for the band and didn't hear the alarm. Lost half my face in a fire. FML. WOE IS ME. #notstoked.

I HATE YOU OTHER BLOGGERS.

The lack of David Attenborough in every single documentary ever

There are many super awesome people who make super awesome documentaries that are worth an hour or so of your time. They ALL pale in comparison to David Attenborough. There is no other argument to this, its just a fact, like Limp Bizkit being terrible band but "Break Stuff" is a great song. Why is that? Nobody knows.

Watching Attenborough is beautiful. They are animal conservation films in their own beautiful way. Personification of animals could make even the most vacant of minds smile and ponder natures complexities and beauty for a second. When you listen to that amazing voice, its like he is sitting beside you, personally addressing you and wowing you with his immense knowledge of everything ever. Attenborough for space president 2012.

If there a special DVD released of the sounds of David Attenborough while he takes a bath, I would both buy and download it, and buy the audio to it on every single format.
In years to come, when senility rots his brilliant brain and he starts spouting Jim Corr-esque nonsense, I will still sit glued to my laptop screen listening to him complain about the amount of Mexicans in the service industry.

Take note everybody who wants to make documentaries, get Sir David on board.

Shit that I don't think is bollocks and have a big mad erection for.

Anything that isn't Alan Partridge can fuck off. Movie and new season? Hell yes.

If I can make one suggestion, it's that everyone immediately buys/downloads the "I,Partridge" audiobook read by Steve Coogan.

I am definitely getting the lolcopter away from this lolcano.

My change of heart towards Pop Punk/Skacore/Surf rock

I feel like someone who was a hardcore atheist who did the Dianetics test to stroke his atheist clitoris and have a big orgasm revelling in the fact that religion is a big load of shite, but got converted. Instead of sitting back, contented and dripping with atheist love sauce, you're suddenly telling everyone you know about space dust, and great space apes massaging your nerves to calm you down and the flocks of extra terrestrial overlords who will soon be arriving to save all of those who give a ten thousand euro salvation deposit immediately, cash only accepted.

That is pretty much how I feel. I was a big metal head years back. Anything that wasn't really heavy black or death metal or grind or what have you, was pretty much in the pile of "Shit that I think is bollocks". Since I am no longer a fifteen year old hormone pot, bursting with jizz and anger, I have become a lot more open minded. Although I wasn't overly into pop music and electronic music for years, I never insulted it as much as I insulted teeny bopper fun punk.

For at least 7 years, anyone I met who liked any of the following bands was a poser nonce, who needed to be slandered and dishonoured at once -  The Skints, Sublime, Tsunami Bomb, Blink 182, The Distillers, Green Day, Bad Religion, Pennywise, NOFX, Green Day, The Offspring, Agent Orange... The list really does go on and on.

Due to being unemployed, I have a lot more time to listen to music. Thus, I gave these bands a chance AND ACTUALLY LIKE THEM. I can't let anyone know, or I'll get the Nobel Prize for "Worst case of going full retard."

Anyway fun punk, we are friends now. I'm sorry!

Shit that I think is SUPER bollocks - Home and Away

Home and Away is without a doubt, the worst show I have ever seen.
There are many things I never want to see again - One guy, one Jar. A naked fat girl. Blue waffle. The list goes on really, but it does take a lot to get on my list of "Fuck that, this makes me want to shit myself with anger." Most of it is NSFL horrible things, so Home and Away might stick out somewhat on the list, but I would rather be made to watch all of the internet video nasties over and over again while my mortal enemies took turns to trim their wiry pubes into my outstretched eyelids, than to watch more than one episode of this "Show" in a row.

Is it the whiny Aussie accents? Is it the terrible acting? Is it the fact that the entire cast of the sleepover club grew a little bit older and ended up in the show? IS IT BECAUSE AS A YOUNG BOY I WATCHED THE SLEEPOVER CLUB? Nobody truly knows why I hate this show so much, including me. I can't handle it though. Often, I find myself in the company of females who watch this show. That half an hour is no communication with me time. Dead to the world, for the first few moments, I complain constantly. Then, I sit silently, sulking to myself with my arms and legs crossed and then I pace around the room smoking before giving up and just staring at the ceiling while the girls quarrel over which flesh-waste is the best looking.

The end is nigh.

Shit that I think is bollocks - Everything that I do

I sit here typing these words, excited like a little child who has just been told that dinner for the week is sherbet dip dabs and magic rainbow fucksticks, basted in red bull. I type feverently, hitting the wrong keys just to get everything written as fast as possible. If I stop for even half an hour, I will come back and re-read the post, only to realize that I am a talentless fuckwit and delete everything.

I always thought I'd like to write a book, but unless it was a very small book that wasn't very good, it would never get past about five chapters. No matter how excited or confident I am about something I write or create, it becomes part of the cesspit of "Shit that I think is bollocks" within a few short minutes.

I like to draw pictures and write, don't get me wrong. Its like a handjob off a liquid-wristed girl, but for your brain. The slimy love custard is words rather my unborn children though. And much like a wank or a handjob, you feel brilliant for five minutes after before sinking back into despair and begin to claw the semen from your bellybutton. 

Being as broke as a kettle from Argos, I tend to draw pictures for my lovely girlfriend rather than buy her extravagant gifts. I try to buy her pretty things when I have money, but poems or pictures will suffice in the meantime. I draw these big pictures of anything and everything from the dark recesses of my imagination and feel accomplished as I place them in my bag. Upon gifting them to her, she looks at them and smiles and tells me how lovely they are. I gaze upon them (this is usually the second time I have ever looked at them) and see a horrible pile of scribbles. If you gave ten retarded people glitter, highlighters and those blue bic pens that don't ever work, and told them to draw World War 2 in one picture, it would look similar to what I see.

Thus, I will never accomplish anything of any artistic merit ever. Back to the quagmire, you horrible fish beast.

Brody Dalle

Don't get me wrong, I love The Distillers as much as any straight man does. Whatever about the tunes, some are good and some are woeful, but its all about her. Brody Dalle - my dream and my nightmare. I would eat many, many miles of her shite, just for the shit of it (pun intended).

If I was a female, married to Ol Dirty Bastard and had a kicking (Yes, that is the most descriptive word I could think of for rap music, yo) rap career, people would think I was a hot ass ghetto ho. The general public would leave comments on my Youtube videos telling me that they want to "Shine my grills" and "Drag race my motor pussy". These comments would keep me happy and leave me feeling appreciated and slightly damp.

SUDDENLY, TRAGEDY STRIKES. OH WHY. WHY MUST YOU DESTROY ALL THAT IS GOOD, VENGEFUL GODS. WHY!?

I divorce ODB because he ain't hot blooded and primal enough for me, I'm a feisty one. Bitch from round the way. I swan back into the dating scene, and set my sites on James Hetfield of Metallica fame.
"Hello James", I say in the most erotic voice I can do with a think Brooklyn accent.

"Eh... Hi", James replies timidly.

Fill in the blanks yourself, I marry James and start a really good thrash metal band called Breastpocalypse. I worry about what the general public will think of my sudden genre switch. They leave comments on my videos calling me a "Sellout" and "A dirty backdoor slutwhore retardsucker".

Why is Brody Dalle allowed switch genres according to who she's with like a big slutty poser?!

No fair.

The lack of dinosaurs in everything I see.

I read lists on the internet for finding stuff to watch sometimes. "IMDB Greatest Blowjob scenes" and other such nonsense. I generally find a load of awesome stuff and download the hell out of it. I sit here grinning to myself and sometimes letting out a laugh while drinking enough coffee to take down Voltaire, watching the supposed funniest and best things on television.

Yet one thing somewhat irks me - the lack of dinosaurs in everything I see.

I never turn something off and contentedly say "Wow that was great, I'm glad they didn't throw in a few dinosaurs. That would have been disastrous." There is nothing in the whole wide universe that couldn't be made  jaw dripplingly, ball fizzingly, dick erectingly greater with dinosaurs.

Lost was one of those shows that got very mixed reviews. It was alright up the point when it got shit, then it was no longer alright. If they had ended season 3 with Sawyer seducing a triceratops, the ratings would have been through the roof.
If the end of Arrested Development had a dinosaur thrown in for good measure. Maybe Gob was a velicoraptor magician the whole time? Would it really have been cancelled?

It isn't just TV shows and films though. Far, far from it. Harry Potter and the secret of Stegasaurus Lake.
The Lord of the Rings - The Return of the Dilophosaur. To Kill a Mockingraptor.

Just think about it.

The first post of shit that I think is bollocks, is something I think is deadly.

Game of Thrones. Who doesn't like Game of Thrones? The books are perfectly crafted fantasy epics, written in a way that could enthral even the most hardcore and niche fantasy readers. The TV show is a mature, well-casted masterpiece, with more Double D's than a stutterers word palate. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a 50 minute boob holocaust every Monday evening, but the problem I have is where I watch it.

Generally, on a Monday I'm in my girlfriends house in a different county while she is at college, or so she says. One can imagine there is a shady underbelly to what she does. Hanging out in a circle down by the Spanish Arch reading Tom Waits lyrics aloud and licking each other nipples to try and tell the future while huffing down dirty bags of pound shop glue.

Anyway, her housemates are two guys who are somewhat sound. Somewhat.One of them is a guy called Eoin, and for some bizarre reason, I only refer to him as Tom. Not in a creepy way, or a sexual way. Its just funny to do that. He is a big dude, the kind of guy who looks like he drinks liquidized steak and injects huge amount of steroids straight into his throbbing man balls. The Hercules of Galway if you will.

 The other guy is a weedy man from the country. From the endless drivel that sprays from his vile,useless mouth, I've deduced that he thinks of himself as a ladies man. There are several flaws in his deluded visions of himself, perhaps too many to go into. The first big problem is that he looks like he drinks shampoo for breakfast, and has been in several severe accidents involving acid to the face. The second is that he is hugely sexist, and has draconian views on women having full time jobs and being outside of the kitchen. Strange coming from a guy who looks like he'd be terrified of seeing a lovely frontbum. A nice lovely venus cock trap.That said, I don't know either of the guys that well. They seem nice enough, I just don't have too much time for them bar the odd fleeting chat as I stroll out of their toilet after destroying it with my red hot hangover ass-lava.

I watch Game of Thrones in their house, and the two lads are usually always there. I am ONE HUNDRED percent convinced that when I watch it, the two guys think I am watching the most sickening hardcore porn fest with a strange and riveting storyline. The looks I get as I walk from room to room after watching it, incriminating yet somewhat understanding? A perverts nod of approval perhaps.

If I can get away with watching Game of Thrones and them thinking its porn, I could just get away with watching "Anal Sluts 5 - The asspire strikes back"

I started this post, determined to complain about how two guys I don't particularly care for think I'm a pervert, but I just ended up complaining about them. I can live with that though.

Peace.