Dark clouds have been gathering for months now. The nightmares have been growing stronger and more vivid, as the collective unconscious has sensed a growing, menacing force on the horizon. Cinema-goers have been huddling together for safety, reverting to an instinctual sense of safety in numbers against an ominous threat.
And finally the storm broke. A message went out yesterday afternoon, through the only medium evil enough to carry it – a Facebook status update:
Going to see Twilight this evening. Come along – we’ll have frappes, hold hands & snuggle while Jacob smears Edward in baby oil. WHO’S IN?!
Context
********
I’d had an awesome weekend. I spent most of Saturday with a good friend who runs a major comedy festival; chatting, drinking coffee and talking about life and the universe till late. Sunday morning I saw some of my oldest and best friends in diving, and they let me try out a closed-circuit rebreather for the first time – something I’ve been desperate to try for years now. I was feeling pretty good.
And out of nowhere, I got the idea of seeing Eclipse. And not just see Eclipse – I was going to see it in a special beanbag cinema, and I was going to drink the gayest thing you can order from a coffee shop while I did. Clearly, I’m some sort of closet masochist
Now before we go too far, I have a small disclaimer to share – before I walked into the cinema yesterday, I fully believed the entire Twilight series was a violent stain on the literary world. I would try and convince people that the films were the reason intelligent extraterrestrial life hadn’t made contact with us yet – they saw it as evidence against humanity’s advancement. In short I would have gladly have thrown Stephanie Meyer in front of a bus, then prayed that her punishment in the 8th circle of hell would be to have her own novels read back to her by Pee Wee Herman.
So why would I go and see Eclipse on a beanbag drinking a caramel frappe?
Nearly 9 years ago, a high school friend and I flew to the US a few months after September 11th. Friends and family told us not to go -”They’re crazy” “There’s so much gun crime” “It’s like Fortress America at the moment, they’re so scared of foreigners”. But we went regardless, because how can you judge something unless you’ve experienced it to the fullest? And we couldn’t just go to the US for that - we had to spent Christmas with a fundamentalist Baptist family in Louisiana, who held hands and sang happy birthday and had a cake for Jesus on December 25th.
I shit you not
So in answer to your question – I saw Twilight for you, dear readers. Because how can I honestly review a film a) without seeing it, and b) without fully embracing the experience by turning into a squealing 12 year old girl at the same time?
And I really wanted a caramel frappe.
Review
*******
I’ll admit it – I walked in late. You could say it was because I was waiting for my frappe for 15 minutes (no no – Fuck you, Dome Coffee at Southlands Shopping Centre. It’s ice, caramel and coffee – what’s so fucking hard about it). You could say it was the dipshit at the ticket counter smirking at me and then putting my credit card number in by hand (Don’t try and embarass me, tiger: I’ve got 3 days stubble and wearing a Life Aquatic t-shirt. I’m not the one working at a cinema wearing a Twilight shirt for a living, you little shit stain). Ultimately, I was late because I was afraid I might walk in there and actually like it.
And like it I did
The opening, pre-title scene (the one I walked in on) is awesome – dark, well shot and tense. A young man is being stalked by something on a dock, there are flashes. Suddenly he’s struck and starts bleeding from two distinct bite marks on his hand, and falls to the ground wailing. Cut to black. Eclipse title fades in and out.
And then… Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart making out in a field of daffodils?
And unfortunately for this reviewer, Eclipse peaked in the first minute. The remaining, traumatising 123 minutes were like having director David Slade lazily punching you in the face with a dead cat. Haven’t seen any of the previous films? Too fucking bad. No attempt is made to catch new viewers up on the “story” at all. Which in retrospect is probably a deliberate choice by David Slade, since it wasn’t exactly difficult to piece it together – the douchebag who needs a suntan (and who sucks more cock than blood) and the shirt-less, motorbike riding bellend have both had their balls cut off by the empty husk, devoid of any personality whatsoever, that they all refer to “Bella”. Other vampires are coming to kill this “pretend” person to return said nads, so douchebag and bellend get their families together to protect her.
Why do they care? Why does anyone care? I don’t know, but my best guess is because Kristen Stewart looks like she could suck the Gulf of Mexico clean in a week if someone told her it tasted like fresh semen – given she has the cold, dead eyes of the whore of Babylon
I believe the term you’re looking for is “Cum Drunk”
I honestly had no idea what was going on for 90% of this film, yet at no point was I frustrated by it since I didn’t give a shit about anyone. Pasty white brunettes with a taste for man-yoghurt are very much my thing, so in fairness I should have been bashing one out over Bella right there on my beanbag – caramel frappe in one hand, my fluorescent orange pork steeple in the other. But all I could think about was how much this whole thing would be improved if Stephanie Meyer stepped on screen, apologised to humanity for creating this, then put a .38 revolver to her temple and sprayed brain-matter all over Bella. Atleast that way Kristen Stewart would have something remotely interesting about her. When Jacob declares “You can love more than one person at a time”, I honestly hoped it would cut to a tacky porn set with Bella sucking the hell out of that cold, life-less worm on Edward;while wolfboy went all “Doggy-style” on her pale pasty white pooper. THAT I would have paid $39 to see on a beanbag.
Ultimately, I just wished something interesting had happened – AT ANY POINT IN THE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR MINUTES I ENDURED WITNESSING THIS ABORTION. I just wish someone would fucking act. I was so glad they kept repeating everyone’s names too, because if they hadn’t I may have started to realise I was watching a film composed entirely of zero dimensional filler characters. Even the music was soulless, and it was here that my biggest gripe with Eclipse reared it’s head – the title track is by Metric.
Metric… Canadian indie rockers, fronted by Emily Haines – who I worship because they’re just an awesome band. A band that I have every album ever released. A band I saw live in Edinburgh last year, had my mind blown, and still have the ticket stub. Fucking Metric. The people who make Bob Dylan sound good.And it gets worse when you see the full list of soundtrack contributors – Vampire Weekend, The Black Keys, BAND OF FUCKING HORSES. These are good indie bands, and they’re down on all fours while Stephanie Meyer queefs in their face. What did they pay you? WHAT DID THE PAY YOU EMILY? What is your artistic integrity worth? What does a Mormon’s minge taste like?
You’ve probably noticed a few minor changes around the site by now - aesthetically not a great deal, but the functionality of the site has been drastically improved. You’ll now find the full Mighty Ginge post library has been categorised and is available in the left column, the page’s format has expanded, and a general freshen of the site has occured.
There will continue to be a few tweaks and changes over the next few weeks, but the biggest addition to the Mighty Ginge site is our new store. That’s right – after ranting about artistic integrity I’m now selling my wares to the lowest bidder. There’s not a lot in there at the moment but expect the range to expand over the next few days as you all rush to buy my shit, like the consumer whores you are.
Avoid certain death when faced with the unrelenting horror of the Australian bush
Background
For generations Australians have lived out a happy and BBQ-filled existence next to the ocean; care free in the knowledge that little changes on the fringes of this large and sunburnt country. And given that nearly 3/4 of all Australians live in coastal areas, our laid-back demeanour is probably well deserved. But what about the Australians who don’t live on the coast?
“Bushies” are a breed of their own – welcoming and hospitable at times, they’re also always slightly distant. City folk sometimes struggle with this, thinking them rude. But a true bushy has learnt to keep distance with everyone. Why? You’d probably find it hard to be close to people when you’ve seen relatives, friends and neighbours mercilessly slaughtered by marauding packs of drop bears.
Drop Bears – They’ll fuck up your whole family just for lulz
The average bushie has seen the trauma these unrelenting beasts can inflict on communities, and so they are often reluctant to get close to anyone new unless they become another victim. Add in the constant threat of hoop snakes, yowies, and the dangers of using electric trees – violet death is ultimately inevitable for any city folk spending more than a few hours in the Australian bush. However, through knowing the characteristics of some of the more dangerous characters in the Australian bush, it is possible to visit for short periods without becoming an entrée for a Tantanoola tiger.
Drop Bears
An aggressive, carnivorous sub-species of koala – the so called “Drop Bear” (Phascolarctos Facerapus) is responsible for over 300 fatal attacks each year on humans, with untold numbers of seriously injured survivors. Larger than it’s peaceful Eucalypt-consuming cousins, Drop bears instead rely entirely on a diet of flesh and human breast milk. They only take live prey, dropping from trees onto their target and attacking the exposed neck and spinal cord of their live prey. In the wild these fearsome beasts work in packs to take down much larger animals, and it is here that they present the greatest danger to humans. Other risks however include unsuspecting foreign women being raped by lesbian drop bears, as well as drop bears infiltrating our children’s television shows. However, when not engaged in a hunt or same-sex rape, drop bears are highly territorial and regularly fight to protect their carefully constructed hides. Should a drop bear be defeated in a territorial conflict though, it will often summon Beezlebub to assist in destroying the victor.
There are many wide ranging myths regarding drop bears, and many Australians have used the terror these creatures can create to scare ignorant foreigners even further. Some particularly sick individuals even provide false “security devices” against drop bears. I know of atleast one instance where a young, nameless Australian army combat engineer on an exercise managed to convince a company of US marines that drop bears have a weakness for sweet food, and that the only way to save yourself during an attack was to carry around a piece of buttered bread covered in sprinkles in your pocket. The theory was that during an attack, the “Fairy Bread” could be thrown out and the drop bear would stop it’s violent assault to eat it instead.
Unfortunately when the drop bears did attack the Americans (or more correctly, the marines spotted a harmless koala in a tree one night and blew it away with a salvo of M-16 fire), the fairy bread did nothing. The marines could only start a huge bonfire, fix bayonets, and have all 100 of them stand shoulder to shoulder around the fire, waiting for the inevitable drop bear attack. Unfortunately, this meant the young Aussie engineer that had started this whole lie was booted out of bed by his sergeant, had to drive up to the American camp in the middle of the night and explain that there were no drop bears in the area and that fairy bread did nothing. Not believing him, the Americans stayed encircling the fire till dawn, completely destroying their commanding officer’s plans for the next day.
But fuck it was funny.
Hoop Snakes
Not as well known as the terror-instilling drop bear, Hoop snakes (Scutellatus Lupos) still present a significant threat to the overseas visitor. Exceptionally venomous, with no known antivenom, the Hoop snake also opts for the high ground in attacking their prey. However instead of dropping from trees onto their prey like drop bears, hoop snakes will watch from the top of a large, open hill. Upon sighting a potential meal, they will bite their own tail to form a circular “hoop”, proceeding to roll down the hill at their target. Provided they have sufficient velocity, the hoop snake will release it’s tail when it is within 10-15 meters of the target, flying through the air to strike with a fatal bite to the neck.
Fortunately, hoop snake attack can be easily countered if identified during the rolling phase (although once it’s flying through the air at your neck, you’re basically fucked). By simply running as fast as you can up the hill, the snake will misjudge the release point, flying harmlessly past you and your deliciously tender neck. DO NOT STOP RUNNING THOUGH, as the snake will quickly recalculate it’s tail-release point and still fuck you up. So if you are ever walking past a large, grassy hill and someone screams out “snake!” YOU MUST RUN TO THE TOP OF THE HILL AS FAST AS YOU CAN.
A Final Note of Electric Trees
Some overseas visitors have at times enquired about using the electric trees found in some Australian swamplands to power electric shavers. A common practice for Australian soldiers in the bush is to identify an electric tree (which closely resemble the Paper-bark trees found in swamps), push the electric socket into the soft bark of the tree, and proceed to shave off the electric current produced by the tree’s hydro-galvanic reaction.
Overseas visitors are NOT advised to engage in this practice themselves, particularly if using electrical devices designed to handle anything lower than 240 volts. Using an American 120v shaver on a 240volt electric tree has been known to over-volt the shaver, leading to device burn out and cause potentially dangerous facial injuries as the shaver attempts to eat the user’s face
Since the move to the new Mighty Ginge, there hasn’t been a film review. Reviews became a semi-regular part of the old blog, and as part of re-starting this I’ve decided to run the biggest film review of all-time: covering every one of the 132 films on the “All Time Greatest Films List” from Richard Horne’s book “101 Things To Do Before You Die”.
Ofcourse, because I’m not a moron, none of the reviews are longer than 2 lines long – enjoy
I’m not proud of it, and God knows I’d have preferred to molest Macaulay Culkin at gun point than ever fly back into Perth International. But I’m here. Don’t ask about the marines – lets just say I developed a smallish issue with flying all the way to Afghanistan to be cannon fodder. Add to the fact that I left the most deranged/gorgeous little English girl behind, and you might realise why when old friends ask “Are you glad to be back?”, I proceed to beat their whole family to death with a Stirling silver tea set, then let a rabid and engorged badger defile the corpses. And if you read the previous post without knowing all of that, then I’m genuinely sorry.
That said, I’m going to try and make the most of being here. And that’s a bonus for all you Ginge readers, because I’ll be venting my weekly spleen on the (soon to be very regular) “Menstrual Mondays” while looking on the absurd side of life with a weekly “College of Awesome” on Wednesdays. Expect to see a few changes around the site too, as I proceed to fill the gaping holes in my “adult” life by pouring my borderline obsessive-compulsive psyche into this dismal piece of electronic real estate. So watch out for FILM REVIEWS! AN ONLINE MERCHANDISE SHOP! MAYBE A REGULAR CONTRIBUTION FROM AN INTELLECTUALLY-CHALLENGED IGUANA!
Seriously, shit is going down here. And I now have the time/willpower/existential dilemma I need to truly turn this into a towering monument to narcissistic self-indulgence. That is ofcourse until I get distracted by something shiny or jiggly (FYI: Fat girls running in sequin dresses give me a heart attack)
Watch out Ginge fans – changes start from next Monday, and you need to be on it like a fat kid on a glazed doughnut with sprinkles.
Where is the appeal to humanity? Once upon a time we had purpose, drive, a sense we were making this corner of the galaxy a better place. Now anyone ever cares about the latest iPod app, how much that new “salmon” shirt with the collar turned up cost, who Brad Pitt is banging, or if Hannah Montana is putting out another 45 minutes of aneurysm-inducing shite before summer.
Maybe I’m turning into the grumpy old man that scares kids off his lawn with a shotgun, but I just don’t get it anymore. No, I don’t want to listen to your shitty dance music. Yes, I DO have a dozen of the same coloured bonds shirts (navy blue if you’re wondering) and I AM wearing knee-length cord shorts – feel free to shove you’re holier-than-thou sense of fashion up your ass, you mindless slave to the hive mind. I don’t give a shit if they’re not hip or cool – they’re warm, while still letting my balls breathe. Fuck off back to your flat-packed Ikea home and express your disdain for the fashion-ignorant with all your cookie-cutter friends. You can all be individuals – just like everybody else.
Who’s calling the shots around here? Seriously? Cause it sure as hell isn’t a sane deity. I personally believe in a higher power – not God, Allah or Vishnu, but a gorilla called Colonel Sherberton who’s seated in an enormous control room, on the edge of the universe, filled with levers and a huge control screen dictating it all. For the most part the Colonel just tinkers curiously with a few of the nearby shiny brass levers – watching the results on the screen then giggling and drooling like an autistic 8 year old who’s spend an afternoon sucking on his helium-filled birthday balloons. But a glitch in the programming causes an image of the Colonel’s long lost gorilla girlfriend to flash up occasionally, snapping him out of his power-induced stupor and sending him into a blind, heartbroken rage, hurling genetically engineered bananas about and tearing the levers from the walls and throwing our existence into a tail-spin. It’s the only plausible way of explaining the universe we live in.
I envy all you, you know. Really, I do. I know I say alot of different things on here, but the honest to goodness truth is that I envy every damn one of you. I wish I could just ignore it like you all do, quietly content with mediocrity. I envy that glazed-over look you all bimble around with, drug-fucked cattle slowly tottering about like dementia patients who’ve just washed their prozac tablets down with a healthy glassful of lithium. How the fuck do you all do it? Look at your lives: You’re born in an orgy of blood, sweat and placenta; get spoon fed and have your ass wiped as a toddler by your doe-eyed parents, go to school and get told how to think and what to feel just like all the other pod people; get a dead-end job where either you whore yourself out selling meaningless shit people don’t need, or whore yourself out as a cog in the machine that maintains this whole fucking charade; get married to some sub-par pond-dweller because you’re too afraid to face the awful truth of our empty existence alone; flop out a couple of screaming fuck trophies because it gives your life “purpose”; and then you die, finally making a worthwhile contribution to this planet as fertiliser. Unless you get cremated – then you’re just a greenhouse polluting cunt.
So, tell me again – how do you all keep doing it? How do you wake up each day and not drop the toaster in the bath with you? How do you sit through an hour of peak hour traffic to and from your suicide-inducing jobs each day without going on some sort of homicidal rampage with a rake and a windscreen wiper? Not that any of this all will matter in a few years time I suppose in our post-apocalyptic future, where the aftermath of global nuclear war will leave you all scrabbling around on all fours, emerging nightly from your radioactive spider holes to fight to the death to over the last morsel of putrefied horse meat hanging from Mr Ed’s sun-bleached skeleton, then fucking like rabbits in a vain attempt to repopulate the planet with your mutant, tumour-riddled spawn.
Personally I’ll be awaiting the blast wave with a smile and open arms, ready to finally be taken from this forsaken planet. But it’s still polite to ask…
By now the news must have spread around the globe. The recent eruption of the volcano in Iceland – shooting pyroclastic ash into the upper atmosphere and it being subsequently swept over Europe by the jet-stream – has triggered one of the biggest humanitarian catastrophes in living memory.
Nightly the BBC shows tragic scenes of open grief as families huddle together for support, and an pervasive sense of fear and despair grips the sub-continent. Being at the epicentre of the crisis itself, I can sadly confirm the ugly truth…
OBNOXIOUS AND SUNBURNT ENGLISH TOURISTS ARE STRANDED ALL OVER EUROPE
Local households throughout Europe are advised to stock up on essentials and barricade their doors to prevent the roaming mobs of displaced Limeys from inviting themselves in for tea and scones. Spanish businesses have witnessed an astronomical increase in soap sales – it seems besieged locals have taken to wearing soap around their necks like some sort of protective glycerin-based talisman as an emergency measure should they be cornered by a drunk skinhead with sunstroke and an invalid boarding pass.
As with all such heartbreaking events though we see both the very best, and the very worst, of human nature. In a move universally applauded RyanAir have decided to resume their cut-price short-haul flights a full day later than all other airlines, hence sparing the poor misguided souls who would pay to fly with an airline who’s entire fleet was built by an autistic 4 year old out of salvaged aluminium cans and piloted by Helen Keller. RyanAir’s decision to stop flights at all has been called into question though, as it was generally accepted that their aircraft do not use conventional jet engines, opting instead for engine’s powered by their passenger’s despair.
It’s true kids – RyanAir are the reason why you’re not getting presents from Santa this year
It’s not all sunshine and human compassion though – the BBC unfortunately decided to interview a duty manager of Heathrow airport – so for 5 minutes a man with eyebrows bigger than an Ewok’s that formed some sort of giant V across his entire face, filled my TV screen. In Calais, a busload of angry English tourists refused to get off the bus and make their own way across the channel, demanding they be taken all the way back to Manchester. Personally, I’d prefer to swim an English channel filled with the boiling blood of unicorns than ever be stuck in France – but then again there was no predicting how regular old Gerald Firthton would react when someone told him he’d have to choose between a regular ferry or a regular train to get him, his fat obnoxious wife and their brood of snot-nosed fuck trophies back to their leaky trailer home in Oldham.
On the larger scale though, insurance companies as a whole have decided to utilise the “Acts of God” clause in their policies to avoiding paying out on travel insurance. Besides the fact that the “Acts of God” clause was rendered defunct by the legal precedent set by the landmark “Billy Connolly Vs. Discerning Cinema-Goers” case – all they’ve done is exacerbate the problem by giving Midland-dwelling pikeys using their passports for the first time something else to piss and moan about. Hilariously though, this hasn’t stopped airlines from claiming compensation from the EU and the UK government…
NEWS FLASH: VOLCANIC ASH BUM FUCKS JET ENGINES – DON’T FLY THROUGH IT
Many have questioned the ethics of companies such as RyanAir and EasyJet informing passengers they can’t get a refund on their tickets, but then claiming compensation against the authorities that prevented their aircraft from dropping out of the fucking sky. Some would even suggest these things sometimes happen, refund people for a service they have failed to provide, ask if they’re going to sue everytime they can’t fly through a fucking hurricane either, and suggest that they should stop moaning like a choir of dying seacows.
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.
For Halloween I'm going to carve a bust of Geoffery Rush into a watermelon, then punch it through the ovaries of a trick or treater 3 mins ago
@yosel_d Sounds like my first time, except I was the boy and she called it my "birthday present"... Male rape is a real thing, dammit 13 mins ago
Oh, I take it back - she's not brunette, judy is a bleached blonde WHORE 15 mins ago
Either they're adopted, or Jane is doing polishing more than antiques at those Galaxy Women Historical Society meetings 15 mins ago
Has anyone else noticed that both of the parents in the Jetsons are ginger, but the kids are blonde & brunette? Me thinks mischief is afoot 18 mins ago
Dark clouds have been gathering for months now. The nightmares have been growing stronger and more vivid, as the collective unconscious has sensed a growing, menacing force on the horizon. Cinema-goers have been huddling together for safety, reverting to an instinctual sense of safety in numbers against an ominous threat.
I shit you not
