Dearest reader – I hope that you are quite well, that your family’s business shares are up and that your studies at Oxford are progressing. I would like to beg your forgiveness for not updating since December last – it has indeed been some time since there was any significant activity on the web log we all cherish, known as “The Mighty Ginge”.
But unfortunately there hasn’t been enough time for me to have turned into some pompous English tosspot who works at his Daddy’s Landrover factory during the week, plays polo on Saturdays and snorts lines of coke off alterboy’s asses after Communion – or for me to genuinely give a shit if I haven’t updated.
It’s not that I haven’t wanted to though – military training establishments are such a fucking barrel of laughs that I’m constantly thinking up ideas for blog posts. And the issue isn’t getting web access anymore, since I’ve managed to wedge myself like a tick into the house of a defenseless English girl on the weekends, shamelessly destroying her bandwidth and leaving it in a bloody, weeping mess when I’m done. No, dear reader the reason for the lack of updates is because I’ve been diagnosed with poor-man’s AIDs.
Are you serious? AIDs? That is SOOOOOO gay
I’d been getting progressively weaker and less motivated with training over the last 2 months, going from easily one of the top recruits to absolute dog-shit and no one could work out why. When it eventually got so bad I could barely walk up a set of stairs, the marines called me gay, threw me in hospital, and did enough blood tests to re-enact the corridor scene from The Shining. The result? While I’m now certain I don’t have Malaria (high 5!), Hepatitis (another high 5!) or HIV (double high 5!), it appears some sneaky little bastard tick latched onto me out on Dartmoor just after New Year, infected me with weakness, then fucked off again without even staying for breakfast.
The plus side to it all though is that it’s finally been diagnosed, found it wasn’t AIDs, got some awesome medication that has me trying to hump anything with or without a pulse, and scored 10 days of paid sick leave out of it too. Ofcourse, I’ll be going back to the rehabilitation unit – home to all the lazy broken mongs who are too lazy to quit, much less finish training. Having already seen how things work in there, rehab will be an excellent time for the blog, not so much for my mental health.
But that’s a story for another day. In the meantime, it’s good to be back… and alive
This morning I woke up curled up next to a gorgeous English girl, warm in a double bed, thankful knowing I’d finally been diagnosed, prescribed antibiotics, and given 10 days leave to try and cover from a life-threatening blood infection. After giggling and playing around in bed for an hour or so we got up, I had a nice and relaxed shower, breakfast, read through dozens of web-comics I’ve been missing, and generally had a pretty chilled-out/awesome morning.
Then I glanced in the fridge, decided I should probably stock up if I was staying here for the week, and tottered off to the local supermarket without a care in the world…
Now, regular readers (or you know, anyone that has even heard of the mighty ginge) will know that I generally despise any large concentrations of humanity at the best of time. But going to a supermarket really burns my balls. For some mysterious reason the moment the average person of reasonable intellect (a creature I’m now starting to doubt the existence of) walks into one of these monuments to consumerism, they turn into a skin-bag of amino acids with the same questionable level of consciousness as Terri Schiavo. And knowing this, I try to evade the inevitable nervous breakdown/bloodbath by -
Making a list before hand,
Going when “normal” people are working
Charging in there with headphones on and list in hand,
Avoiding eye-contact with any of the countless mongoliods populating the supermarket
Washing thoroughly afterwards to rid myself of the coat of filth going out in public leaves me with
Unfortunately these things don’t always go to plan, and I have to come home and drown a bunch of kittens. Like this afternoon…
For starters, who the fuck designs supermarkets? There’s clearly some sort of instinctual-primate programming that I’m missing, because I can’t find fucking anything. And who would want to design a supermarket?
NOBODY DESIGNS FUCKING SUPERMARKETS
5 year olds born without an imagination or arms, and with a crayon stuck in their mouth might. So in an exercise to treat my obvious yet undiagnosed autism, I decided to see things from someone else’s point of view by imagining how a 5-year old Thalidomide baby “armed” (pun intended) with a box full of Crayola might draw the supermarket I just walked out of – it’s surprisingly accurate!
I would encourage the use of the above diagram in following the rest of today’s story, “The Mighty Ginge Narrowly Avoids Murdering a Supermarket Full of People”.
Now, I’ll admit I may not have helped things today. While I was pre-prepared with my list and my music, it was a busy Saturday afternoon and I was listening to the playlist I use to wind myself up before going for a run or punching a bunch of orphans.
But that doesn’t make up for the fact that just anyone can push a shopping trolley, and they don’t need to pass a driving test to do it. We’ve discussed previously how old people should stay out of my life by sticking to the things they’re good at, like complaining about house boat speeds, and dying. But they really need to stay away from trolleys. Because just like driving on the road, old people seem particularly adept at getting lost/confused, and blocking the road/aisle as they dawdle down it slow enough to start to re-fossilise in the process.
Oh, and that goes for new mothers too -laying on your back and letting some bus driver blast his caffeine-riddled semen into you a year ago and subsequently spawning a future Katie Price, does not give you the right to block the entire dairy aisle with the mobile, screaming shit-factory you call your “pride and joy”. I get that you want to casually chat to another one of your kind, with her own little fuck trophy in a pram next to yours, but maybe do it in the carpark where you might get hit by a Landrover instead.
Supermarket mothers – You too can raise a daughter that goes on to have a successful series of book deals and a hit TV show… all based on the fact that she’s an enormous synthetic whore
Things always take 5 times longer in a supermarket. It shouldn’t take so long, but because there’s always that ONE FUCKING THING YOU CAN’T FIND, an already painful experience is drawn out into something akin to having to discuss philosophy with Kanye West. You go around and around, looking for something you just know they sell, but can’t find. Like milk. Or eggs. Or sun-dried tomatoes and condoms. I eventually gave up on the sun-dried tomatoes, but I would be damned if I was going to be leaving without condoms – it’s Saturday/party night, and the cocktail of antibiotics I’m on are making me hornier than a blind lesbian in a fish market.
Now you’d think safe sex would be something they would be encouraging in Devon at the moment, but you’d never guess it – I spent half an hour walking the entire fucking supermarket trying to find them this afternoon. “Maybe they’re in the baked goods area?” I went up and down the healthcare/dental aisle no less than 5 times trying to find them, gave up, lined up at the check-out for 10 minutes, thought “Fuck this, I will not be beaten here” and searched again. Sure, there’s a full aisle dedicated to raising your little brood of future drug-dealers, but heaven forbid you want to avoid catching a venereal disease like Gonorrhoea or Pregnancy.
Low and behold though, in my final desperate search before I opted for the “wrap a garbage bag around it” option, I find a single shelf of condoms – the bottom shelf, below four shelves of heartburn medication. In fairness, if you’d seen some of the wildebeest I’ve tried to wet my wick in over the years you’d probably need a dose of antacid too. But most appropriate product placement? I think not.
Can I pay you to put a burka on instead then?
Condoms in hand I thought the torment was over, only to have the little 16-year-old shit stain working check out hold them up and ask if I had a big night planned. Yes I do have a big night planned – once I’m done fucking you on the cash register with the foot long cucumber you just scanned, I’m going to find out where you live and leave a burning cross on your front lawn with your cat crucified to it.
Don’t update your feeds people – I’m AM still here. I’ve just completed Week 9 of the 32 weeks of training, and things have finally started to improve. Not only am I starting to get more free time (but not enough to blog unfortunately), but I’m stomping my way through training like a fat kid through a bakery. Earned myself a “superior” pass in our fitness tests, on my way towards the shooting trophy and a recruit leader’s position – so basically I’m awesome at everything.
Which you already knew.
But I am shattered, and the marines take over every inch of your life while you’re on base. Thankfully I’ve managed to get off base most weekends to annoy a defenceless English girl who mistakenly believes I’m her charity case, and in Week 15 (mid-February) I finally get to have my laptop on base with me. I’m on two weeks Christmas holidays at the moment, so I’m trying to squeeze in as much sleep/blogging/drinking/general ginge chaos as I can before I have to slip back into jarhead mode again.
Now normally this would be fairly easy to do since I’m staying in a hostel in London over Christmas. Especially since I just completed the Monopoly board pub crawl again. Unfortunately though I’ve got one of the South African guys I’m training with in the me hostel too. And given he;
Has all the personality of a house brick, coupled with all the social etiquette skills of Ted Bundy
Spends money about as frequently as he charms people
Needs someone (eg. me) to tell him when to eat, shit, shower and smile
Has two modes – moaning, and being an ignorant asshole
… I’m finding it a little harder than normal to switch it off. In retrospect it probably wasn’t the best move adopting another cultural orphan for the Christmas break (especially given how much a walking fail he is, and my instinctual need to punch orphans). But somewhere in my tiny little black heart I feel something whenever I picture him alone in a hostel on Christmas day.
And I was pretty sure that feeling is hunger, so I’m going to go eat something. In the meantime keep an eye out for a few fresh posts when I (briefly) return to being a semi-functional human being, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do around Christmas.
Hope you all had a fantastic weekend – I clearly offended some sort of deity with last week’s “Menstrual Monday”, because my final weekend of freedom in London was so full of fail I very nearly wrote this week’s menstrual monday about it. I’m still feeling a little raw from it so rather than get into it too much, here’s a few of the highlights for you all:
Having the one material item in this world I love, my Team Zissou hoodie, being stolen by some mouth-breather at the hostel on Friday
Getting the wrong directions for the Hilton, spending 3 hours walking randomly around the shady docklands trying to find it, and hence missing my last chance to see friends at my final stand-up gig.
Having a check-out chick steal my last 20 pounds from me at the counter.
Watching “The Omen”, and then minutes later having the fire alarm go off and having to evacuate the hotel at 1 in the morning… and no hot water or a refund the next morning
Finding my Australian credit card has been locked again for “Overseas Use”, and having to pick 5 pence pieces off the road to buy a ticket back to Exeter.
But I managed to get back, felt like putting a bullet between the eyes of every panda that wouldn’t screw to save it’s species, and decided to get absurdly drunk instead. And with just 7 days left before I disappear, it can only improve from here. So without further ado, here’s your last weekly moments of web awesomeness.
Make your own home-made K.F.C at home, with just a few basic ingredients.
Background
Fast Food – it’s the staple of college and university students the world over. But while fast food varies from country to country, there are two trans-fat loaded stalwarts leading the charge globally. And while I’m sure any performing art student (with enough time and grant money) could figure what goes into a big greasy BigMac from McShit (and then do an interpretive dance about it), the question continues to hang over Kentucky Fried “Chicken” and it’s ingredients. Nearly 80 years since he first started experimenting with chicken (rather fittingly selling it from a petrol station) during the Great Depression*, the “11 secret herbs and spices” in the Colonel’s “Original recipe” remain unconfirmed.
That was ofcourse, back in the day when “Original recipe” actually had 11 herbs and spices in KFC.
Running a sample in a lab quickly shows that there is SWEET FUCK ALL ingredients in modern KFC. A quick perusal over the web though quickly comes up with a range of different recipes claiming to be the “Original Recipe” (I love you so much Maddox). But since we’ve all been eating a watered down cock-gobbling version of the original “Original Recipe” for generations now, I decided instead of trying to copy the bullshit you get in the restaurant I’d make a bad-ass version that poor-assed tertiary students can make and consume at their leisure.
Bask in all it’s majesty, and behold for I give you -
The Mighty Ginge’s “Ultra Ball-Breaker Original Recipe”
Pre-heat your fan-forced oven to 220 deg Celsius (who gives a fuck what it is in Fahrenheit? Welcome to the metric system bitches, get with the program)
Crack the egg into a large bowl, then add the soy sauce, honey and black pepper – mix thoroughly.
Place the cup of Kellogg’s Crunchy Nut and the peanuts** into a ziplock bag, and crush the living Jesus out of it until it’s nearly powder.
Added the crushed flakes to the bowl, and again mix thoroughly. Depending on how finely you crushed the flakes, you should be left with a chunky paste of death
Take your shaven kitten and dip it into the bowl. Ensure it is covered completely and evenly with the mixture to ensure a consistent bake. This recipe also works by substituting the kitten with either 2 chicken fillets (if you’re a weak little girl) or a fully grown tom-cat that you’ve just dragged out of a pool and is still alive (if you’re the ultimate bad-ass like Blaine Cooper)
Bake your kitten on a wire frame with a drip tray for approximately 20mins. The outer coating should just be turning a dark brown when you remove it from the oven. Serve with half a cup of uncooked rice (because that’s how extreme you are)
Finally as an additional treat for dessert, scrape the slab of burnt honey that has leached off the mixture and pooled in the drip tray – it’s both delicious and carcinogenic. And for all of you Commerce students trying to type “carcinogenic” into Wikipedia, it means “good for you”.
And there you have it – a home made KFC recipe that’s cheap, tasty, and simple enough a humanities student could cook it. You’ll be able to enjoy delicious fried food without having to leave your World of Warcraft character unattended for the 3 minutes it would take to drive to KFC and back.
Enjoy!
* The actual Great Depression, not this pansy “global depression” we’re supposed to be in now. Too bad today’s stock-traders aren’t real men like they were back in the 30’s, where there was literally a hail of Wall Street traders jumping from skyscrapers. What we need is Godzilla to come fuck up the US Federal Reserve too – that’ll teach you dipshits for running a fake economy
**Peanuts play no actual role in this recipe whatsoever, other than to increase the amount of salt in it. But they do serve as a timely reminder to those who are prone to nut-based anaphylactic shock to stay out of my fucking kitchen
There’s alot of hate and oppression going around in this world today, and I’m proud to say I play my own small role in contributing to it. But there is one type of discrimination in this world that I actively campaign against, the kind of abuse that sickens me to my core.
DISCRIMINATION AGAINST MINORITY GROUPS I’M PART OF
And it’s for this reason that I highlight the relentless persecution of one of the most important minority groups in the Western world – Atheists.
Atheists aren’t evil, misguided, or unenlightened: we’re just normal people like the rest of you, only burdened with being right. Everywhere you look, there’s evidence of our persecution. But when you start to look at what we’re up against, it’s not hard to see why.
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Jesus of Nazareth
Nothing I write here can possibly say can put it better – Jesus is awesome*
Don’t be confused by what those filthy liberals say though – Jesus is whiter than Rose McGowan, grew up in Kansas, and votes Republican. He died for our sins, but then came back and walked around for awhile, showing everyone how bad ass he was. But 3 days in that cave meant he was busting for an epic shit – Jesus found your garden, and started laying a bunch of “Jew eggs” in the bushes. When Mary Magdalene caught him laying an egg, he blamed it on a nearby rabbit, labelled her a whore, then bugged out back to heaven. Mary Magdalene ate a bunch of Jesus’s eggs (Jesus had already invented the “Dirty Sanchez” because Mary was half Mexican) but missed some, and they fossilised and turned into chocolate over the millennia for kids to find and eat.
And that’s the story of Easter.
Mohammad
Mohammad was just an ordinary guy… who kicked some serious ass all over the Middle East. He stomped all over those pesky Meccan tribes, laid down the Laws of Allah, and brought the whole region into a state of relative peace – which lasted all of about 30 seconds after he died. But Mohammad was totally cool with dying, because he’d already been to heaven once before, and decided to come back to keep being a bad ass on Earth for awhile. One night he rode a flying fucking winged-horse into heaven with arch-angel Gabriel; prayed at the furthest mosque; hung out with Allah for awhile just chilling and listening to Sigur Rós; then he had to bail and head back to Earth to sort some shit out. How cool is that?
L. Ron Hubbard and Xenu
Just personally, I think L. Ron Hubbard was a fairly major douche-fag. But I have to respect a man who tells everyone exactly what he’s going to do (in Reader’s-Fucking-Digest no less), and then laughs all the way to the bank as 8 million morons throw their money at him anyway
“Writing for a penny a word is ridiculous. If a man really wants to make a million dollars, the best way would be to start his own religion”
The real reason Scientology has so much going for it though, is because of this bad boy, Xenu (or is that Xemu?)
While not technically the “good” guy in Scientology, why wouldn’t you want to believe in a “religion” based on the idea that Xenu, evil dictator of the Galactic Confederacy, tricked his people into turning up for income-tax inspections, trapped their souls in booze and anti-freeze, flew them to Earth in DC-8’s, dumped them around volcanoes, then blew the fuck out of them by dropping mecha-tons of hydrogen bombs into the volcanoes? If someone had told me that when I was five, I’d be asking if we could dig up L. Ron Hubbard’s body so I could suck his dick while he protected me from Xenu and his army of thetans, all hell-bent on raping supple young boys like myself. I’d be fucking SOLD on Scientology right there and then.
Then I’d probably go back to playing with my toy dinosaurs.
Shiva
Shiva, just chilling with his homie the Cobra
The Hindus have their own “God of fucking things up” – Shiva. And when other Hindu deities churned up the oceans to get the sweet, sugary nectar of immortality, Shiva decided to be a badass and drink the left over poisonous shit instead, staining his throat blue. Between being the transformer and destroyer of our entire universe, Shiva in his spare time likes long walks on the beach, throwing his trident at people who piss him off, having the Ganges river flow out from his hair, and riding around on his epic bull “Nandi”
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And what’s the best we poor atheists can do? Yet another old, white, dead guy -
In the mean time, I guess we’ll just have to endure the abuse and sneering remarks of the drooling masses. It’s just a burden you have to bear when you go and do something crazy, like basing your belief system on that flimsy trinity of basic facts, the scientific method, and Occam’s razor.
Just a quick news update – I’m 2 weeks out from starting with the RM, and we’ve definitely changed into high gear – scheduling posts, needlessly harassing poor English women, and making all my final arrangements before I step back into the abyss again. After 4 months of backpacking around the UK waiting, it’ll actually be a relief to have a regular bed and to finally start the world’s longest infantry course.
But besides all that, I wanted to share a few moments of awesome from the past week;
Finally though, I wanted to share a beautiful story told to me on Saturday afternoon -a story of hope an inspiration for this modern age. After a shitty day of sleeping off Friday night and doing sweet fuck all, I was feeling pretty ordinary. And then, I received the following message through Facebook from my little sister that brightened my day:
(dislclaimer): im sooo drunk right now.
was just on wine tour allday.bumped into ur mate paul L (from school) he was there with all those fuuuuckkkkheads from ur year at schhol, e.g. fat john, ranga head skinny prick, brad, andrew [name suppressed] etc. omg they are all fat fucks (xcept ranga skinny boy). i went up to one of them, the dude with brown hair and a killer hook nose, as he went up for hissecond serving of lunch and said “you know why your a fat fuck, because you eat too much. i hope you get diabetes”
Achieve social pariah status by getting yourself blocked from my facebook
Background
Facebook forms a fairly major part of each day for me at the moment – between watching children’s cartoons from the 90’s, tweeting what I’m having for lunch, watching truly shit movies, having three or four wanks, and occasionally gracing you with my presence here; I tend to fill the gaps in my busy days by stalking people on facebook. There’s something about knowing exactly where all the people I went to school with are, what they’re doing, and using this information to systematically avoid them, that I find entirely arousing.
This pompous, holier-than-thou attitude quickly turns sour though when someone’s ruins my relaxed stalking with their monumentally retarded status updates. Being the tolerant and understanding individual that I am, most run of the mill idiocy is simply ignored. The odd spelling mistake, mediocre grammar, a drunken update – these are not things to get wound up about.
So it takes a special kind of spastic to really fuck up my Facebook ch’i. Do it often enough, and you leave me with a choice – do I endure your ongoing efforts to drag me down to the intellectual gutter you inhabit, just so I have the pleasure of looking at your profile for a laugh every time life gets me down? Or is the daily reminder of your existence no longer funny, and been deemed painful enough to warrant the effort of blocking you?
Truth be told, this isn’t something I have to do regularly, but goddamn do I take pleasure in it once the decision is made. So in today’s lecture we won’t be covering how to actually block someone*, but instead we’ll be meeting the characters that have joined the elite group of people that have pissed me off enough to be blocked on facebook.
There comes a time in almost every person’s life where the travel bug bits, and they’re compelled to explore the world outside their usual existence. And if they don’t, it’s probably because they’re happy living in Perth for the rest of their lives – doomed to wait out their dreary, meaningless existence arguing who’s better – North or South of the river, Eagles or Dockers, Hungry Jacks or Chicken Treat – while they continue to steal my oxygen, breeding with each other to spawn dozens of their little fuck trophies, more pond-scum that will go on to eventually spawn with each other too, continuing the world’s biggest country town’s spiraling trend toward a gene pool that resembles an over-flowing sewage sump.
But for most young people, a stretch of extended backpacking-style travel is almost a certainty – a working holiday in Europe after high-school, a backpacker’s tour through South America, teaching English in Japan, ect. And unless Daddy owns an oil-rig and you stay at the Ritz, most young travelers will do a stint staying in a youth hostel. They’re cheap, they organise events like pub crawls, and everyone’s a traveler with their own story. Which basically boils down to them being a cesspool of drunken depravity. Sure, the Slovenian soccer fans will come in at 4am, start yelling at each other and smoking weed, and are so drunk they piss on some Japanese girl’s suitcase – but it makes for a great story! The adventure of traveling is the bizarre and unexpected shit you have to deal with along the way. I’ve stayed in dozens of youth hostels all over the world, and I can safely say I’ve left 75% of them with some sort of hilarious story
Unfortunately, a serious threat to youth hostel culture has emerged over the last 10 years – an insidious force that has maintained it’s vile cover story of being a hostel by wrapping itself in the flag of youth hostel culture, while simultaneously defiling the hard-earned reputation of real youth hostels as being testaments to alcohol-induced debauchery. This new evil even has the gall to use “hostel” in it’s name. I speak ofcourse, of the “Boutique youth hostel”.
Yup - you're a pompous wanker
For those that are new to the term, it’s quite simple: take an ordinary hostel with it’s multi-bed dorms and shared cooking facilities, clean it right up, increase security and basic comfort (nice lounges with a plasma TV, less beds per room for extra space, ect), and charge more to make up the difference. The theory is it’s the best of both worlds – a hostel with a few basic comforts, without going all out and staying in a proper hotel.
Now a boutique youth hostel is a fantastic concept, but then again so is France. And just like France the problem isn’t really with the place itself, but the douche bags that populate it. For some reason the idea of a “classy” hostel drags in the most mediocre human beings to ever crawl out of a birth canal. I’ve bitched previously about the guys in Exeter, but it seems I’d missed the mark, slandering everyone with a Y-chromosome in this quaint little university town. Instead it now appears that it’s just this fucked up hostel I’m staying in – a self-proclaimed “boutique hostel”. And as I said previously, the girls are fine – friendly, talkative, interesting and TRAVELING. But it seems every guy who turns up here instantly decides I’m the most fascinating life-form they’ve ever met and makes convincing me of how interesting they are their SOLE REASON FOR EXISTING.
Guys, I’m genuinely flattered. But please just fuck off.
It almost as if hostels are playing the role of science, hotels that of religion, and boutique hostels are the mutant child of the two known commonly as Intelligent Design. And just like people everyone who believes in I.D, most guys staying in boutique hostels rail against the concept of evolution because they’re still waiting to experience it. The guy in the bunk below me at the moment LOOKS like he might be a part of an undiscovered Australopithecuss tribe he’s got so much back hair. You could hide a fucking goat in there, and it’d die before it ate it’s way out of his back forest.
If only this guy were as adorable as Harry
And while I’m still trying to establish if he’s a Sasquatch, I have established that I shouldn’t ever be left alone in a room with him, or any of the other vacant-faced bottom-feeders that take up space around here. It’s not that they’re genuinely bad people – it just that they’re boring enough to be suicide-inducing. And boring people create drama. Hostel politics can be difficult at the best of times, but get a bunch of people together that are this boring, and they try to fill their empty lives by creating problems. “Dave stole my milk, so I’ll steal his eggs”, “I’ll turn all the lights on in the room at 3am and wake everyone up so they can see my lard ass giggling in the wind as I go to bed – just for a laugh”.
Through a combination of the fucking yeti shaking our bunk to high hell everything he breathes; and the duty-manager stumbling into our room at 2am every night drenched in red wine, falling into a bed and proceeding to snore loud enough to destabilise the building’s foundation – I’ve averaged about 4 hours sleep each night for the last week. And that’s only up from a 3hr average because I went up to London for two nights. So when these same furry fucking drama queens complain to me the next morning about how a teaspoon was left in the kitchen sink, I suddenly find myself trying to restrain the overwhelming compulsion to stab them in the face with a fork and then go on a bizarre homicidal rampage with a jar of peanut-butter and a steam iron.
Trust me - it's happened before
Don’t stay in boutique youth hostels people – don’t support this scourge on the upstanding hostel culture just for a few cheap creature comforts. And I’m going to try and stop myself killing everyone in the entire building with a table spread in one hand and a red-hot electrical appliance in the other.
Achieve a mind-altering psychedelic experience by huffing the soul out of a kitten
Background
While the last thing I need is any kind of mind-altering substance, my university experience still seemed slightly empty without them. There is little doubt that illicit drugs form an important an essential part in almost every student’s college experience. But while weed, pills and powder still hold absolutely no attraction to me, taking some sort of non-addictive psychedelic always had some appeal – any drug that users consistently report allows them to experience “the love of God” and to “be one with the universe” sound pretty fucking cool – which is shit, because it means fucking hippies get all the cool drugs like LSD, shrooms and mescaline. And god know how much I hate hippies.
I've hated hippies all my life
So it’s with great joy I can say I’ve found the perfect alternative for all the students of the College of Awesome that are looking to experiment with mind-altering substances, without becoming a goddamn hippy. Through my extensive online research, I’ve discovered KITTEN HUFFING
For the uninitiated, kitten huffing at it’s simplest is the ancient art of sucking the soul out of a kitten through it’s nose to reach a psychedelic state. But generations of kitten huffers has spawned a range of huffing techniques – for a full study of kitten huffing and the various huffing techniques developed, I strongly recommend the article from the ultimate online reference. Instead, our lecture today will focus on the latest technique for advanced huffers chasing an extremely high-impact high: the Burning Bungee Huff.
Equipment Required
1x fresh kitten (ideally orange, well stretched and yelled at)
1x Cat carrier
1x stupidly high bridge
An bungee-jump operator sensitive to the unique requirements of burning bungee huffing
1x chemical molotov cocktail
Method
Ensure you kitten is fully prepared before booking the bungee jump. Bungy jumping is expensive, and the more work you put into preparing the kitten before the huff, the greater the experience. Don’t forget – a well prepared kitten means a well prepared soul.
Bring the kitten out onto the bungee bridge inside the cat container – burning bungee huffing is dangerous enough, without introducing the hazards of a cat with vertigo.
Strap into the bungee chest harness (if you’re a complete pussy) or just tie some rubber bands around your legs (if you’re a badass), then carefully remove the kitten from the container.
Taking the kitten in one hand, and the chemical molotov in the other, jump off the fucking bridge.
As you free-fall, strike the kitten over the head with the glass bottle containing the chemical molotov, setting it alight. It is important to use a chemical molotov and not a regular molotov cocktail, as the burning rag of a regular molotov maybe extinguished during the free-fall.
As you reach the point where the bungee cord is stretched, grasp the burning kitten tightly or it will slip from your grip and plummet into the river/ravine/highway below
As the bungee cord accelerates you and the kitten upwards again, use this increased momentum to violently rip the kitten into your face and inhale sharply. The violence of the impact combined with the intensity of the burning fur gives this huff a distinctive rush, similar to the head spin experienced after being struck from behind with a baseball bat.
Release the now depleted kitten, where it’s absence of a soul will cause it to float gently down to the safety of the river/ravine/highway below as it burns out.
Wait for the bungee operator to disconnect you from the bungee cord, lie down, and trip balls for the next few hours.
The Mighty Ginge displaying the moment of inhalation in a burning-bungee huff
IMPORTANT FINAL NOTICE: All students of Friday’s “Advanced Huffing 302″ are expected to bring me 5000 word analysis of the upheaval experienced in the global huffing community between the end of the “Oscar Wilde’s Hover Huff” period, and the beginning of the “David Hasselhoff Hasselhuff” period. Only photographic evidence of a successful burning-bungee huff will be accepted as a reason for non-completion.
For the uninitiated, kitten huffing at it’s simplest is the ancient art of sucking the soul out of a kitten through it’s nose to reach a psychedelic state. But generations of kitten huffers has spawned a range of huffing techniques – for a full study of kitten huffing and the various huffing techniques developed, I strongly recommend the 