Tuesday, 18 December 2007

Toys are dangerous, apparently...

Right, I know I only posted yesterday, but sod it, I feel the urge to vent about the sheer stupidity that seemingly inflicts everybody in this nation of fucking retards that don't even have the mental disability to be able to excuse it.

So, I was watching Dispatches last night. Not usually my type of thing, admittedly, but there was nothing else on and I was pottering around the internet with my usual mindless intent while my girlfriend (Yes, GIRLfriend, I'm not gay. Controversial to popular opinion, I have to say that I don't tend to enjoy a rock hard phallus buried into my rectum, but thanks all the same for caring enough to fucking judge me by your dated standards. Shall I rant about the whole sexuality debate? Not right now, there are more important idiots to be berated in this instant.)

Anyway, yes, Dispatches. As I said, not my normal sort of thing, seeing as I don't tend to enjoy that type of scare-mongering bullshit that I've managed to live without quite happily for the past ALL OF MY FUCKING LIFE. You see, they just seem to lead people to believe that this perfectly happy existence (Well, I say perfectly happy, but we know it's not, but that's beside the point right now, I'll come to that another time) that we're living in is actually a DEATH TRAP OF DOOM (copyrighted to me, that name is, so fuck right off Channel 4).

Yes, indeed, we're surrounded by terrorists, murderers, rapists, paedophiles and all those stereotypical nasties that we can't seem to avoid in our everyday lives. Except that the majority of us do. Yes, it's true! We can in fact lead our lives without the general concern of the fact that we may be beaten, sexually abused and mugged all in one evening. In fact, due to this sort of thing, I actually feel quite disappointed when these things don't happen on an average night out. Which leads to me being generally disenchanted by most evenings I spend in the pub, seeing as these things are actually SURPRISINGLY FUCKING RARE. Although they don't want you to know that, because lets face it, they'd have bugger all to make TV programmes about, and you'd actually, y'know, enjoy yourself and not worry about this sort of thing.

Anyway, I've become sidetracked. This one particular episode was absolutely genius, and proved to me that natural selection is a wonderful thing and that these programmes should stop being made simply so these bloody idiots will just do away with themselves and improve the gene pool.

This one was about toys. Yes, toys. Those nasty deathtraps that have a horrible way of disguising themselves as perfectly fucking SAFE playthings. Oh, yes, you'd be surprised at how bad they are! I'm amazed any of us actually made it through our childhoods, what with the vast amount of possible fatalities that could amass from those devious devices of horrendous suffering. Then I remember that I'm not completely mentally devoid of any sort of common fucking sense and although you may be (After all, you're reading this despite the fact I've spent the entire time calling you fucktards and yet you still come back for more), you at least have the sense to not be brutalised by a fucking TOY!

I digress. This programme was ridiculous. It basically told everyone that by purchasing these evil devices of Satan, they are indeed sentencing their children to lead the rest of their clearly short lifespans in great deals of agony. Or, possibly not, if you've had the good sense to actually raise them in a manner that most would deem correct.

Magnets was the main deal with it. Magnets. Don't eat them, apparently. Now, apparently that's not as simple as it would seem, according to the legions (well, dozens at the least) of parents who had to deal with their children as they vomitted their entire internal organ structure. They eat magnets? Let them fucking die! Do us all a favour! In fact, sod it. Let them munch on magnets! Massively strong ones! Then let them loose in the cutlery warehouse. Kids with massive knives hanging from gaping wounds in their stomachs? Self inflicted! Hurray! Hilarious. Or, let them chew on electromagnets, and save yourself masses of cash on christmas lights AND the fact you'll no longer have to feed something with an IQ about three points above the average tub of butter.

If you're going to stick magnets in your mouth and then be stupid enough to swallow them, you deserve whatever consequences come your way. They're not fucking edible! Surely the fact you can't even chew them would be fairly good advice? I'm amazed these kids didn't manage to choke on the bloody things, I'll give them a hand and force feed them via the magic medium of my clenched fist.

I have nothing against kids, I love them, in fact. Not in the Michael Jackson way (And if I did, I'm fairly certain I wouldn't be willing to admit across a public fucking forum such as the internet, so you can stop reading this if you're only interested in kicking up a fuss over someone having a fucking opinion that differs from you. Overbearing mothers of the world, I'm talking to you.), but in a genuinely nice way. Hard to believe I'd say that about anything, but it's true. But if they're not being raised well enough to know about these things, then fucking let them suffer! Their parents deserve the great displeasure of watching their children be in vast amounts of pain, simply for not being clever enough to teach their kids to not put shit like that in their mouths! (Oh, and by the way, these weren't tiny kids either, there were ones well above the age to know simple stuff such as this)

After that, they started on all the "counterfeit" toys on the marketplaces and other such places. I used to fucking LOVE those things. We weren't a well off family, so I made do with these things, quite happily. I'm not dead, am I? No, because I was raised to know not to do stupid things. I'm also aware that trying to felate a gun barrel is a great way to swiftly end your life. Kurt Cobain, take note, despite being dead, you're still inflicting vast amounts of torment on the rest of us.

I can't believe the idiocy of people today. They're scared, afraid, paranoid that everything in this world is out to get them.

Here's a note - It's not. We're just being force fed these things and you're believing them. As if we don't have enough to worry about! "OH NO! DANGEROUS TOYZ?!?!" indeed. The least we need to worry about with our kids is toys that will harm them if they happen to be in the company of inbred parents who are both missing several chromosomes each. How about all these other poor countries? That don't even know if their kids will survive past christmas? Hey, at least that solves one of their problems - They won't need to worry about buying them shitty christmas gifts.

I'm sick of this shit.

Monday, 17 December 2007

For a change...

Now, I’m not entirely sure what you lot are expecting from this blog. Maybe a cure for cancer? Or at least a cure for those genital warts you keep getting? (Not a cure, but a big hint for you - Stop fucking skanky girls!) Or maybe possibly a mild distraction from the tedium that is your life. Not my life, my life is filled with constant glamour and maybe one or two well hidden lies (And another hint - That was one of them)

No, I’m really uncertain as to what you’re expecting. I’m actually quite grateful if even one person reads this and enjoys it. Admittedly, I’ll call that one person an idiot for enjoying the delusional ramblings of an 8 year old speed freak with downs syndrome, but I’ll thank them regardless.

Right, now that self-congratulatory bollocks is out of the way, let’s talk shit.

I’m becoming mildly annoyed with the gaming industry. Yes, yes, I know, I know, you were expecting a rant on music probably, but fuck it, this is what I think now, so I shall spew forth, and if you don’t like it, fuck right off and go and toss yourself off to the new “Genericemo” album or whatever bullshite you’re being fed this week.

So, yes, video games. Now, without wishing to sound like another Yahtzee-like (Anyone who knows not what I speak of, go check out Zero Punctuation), I’m going to slag off some of the bigger selling games of this year, being what they are, a big pile of shittyness. Yes, yes, alright, you may have already figured out some of the various titles that I’m going to mention. So let’s start at the top and work our way down, yes?

Halo 3. Oh dear, oh dear oh fucking dear. Now, I’ll be honest, I’ve never been a fan of the Halo games to begin with. So, imagine my disgust when they just fucking released Halo 2 with a graphical touch up. Alright, yes, the story may be slightly different, involving as it does… Ohh, let’s face it, if you’re disagreeing with me, you’re not going to listen to a word I say, and if you’re agreeing with me, I don’t need to reiterate the sort of mindless drivel that consists of the plot. And if you’re unaware, then you are in fact non-existent seeing as Microsoft have spared no lengths to give me another reason to hate them and their fucking advertising. It seems that the Master Chief has seen his way to sponsor everything possible with the exception of any form of contraception, because, lets face it, they want as many customers as possible and only those with the intelligence of a new born would enjoy this fucking bland, insipid shooter.

The fucking physics engine for this game is enough to put anyone off. Right, yes, OK, I understand that the master chief (which, by the way, is the stupidest fucking name in the world since the twatty guitarist from U2 decided to name himself The Edge, which, I might remind you (except I might not because if you forget these things then you can sod right off) is also the name of a fucking PIZZA. Yes, he came first, but, let’s face it, if your name is also a suitable titling for a pizza, then you really should reconsider allowing yourself to live. And if you’re not reconsidering that, then you were probably dropped on your face as a child. In which case, it was probably because your mother was giving birth to you in some back alley and trying to sell you on for her next fix of crack. Right, I’m going to shut up and proceed with my critical panning of Halo now) is a genetically modified something or other from the *yawn* something programme (Yes, I’m fully aware of what these things are all called, I’m just emphasising the point that I don’t actually give a flying shit about them), but that doesn’t explain why the FUCK he can jump around about 6.2 miles into the air.

Vehicles are even worse. Now, I’ll be honest. Whilst I’m not the most amazing gamer in the world, I’m pretty damn good. For fucks sake, I test games for a living, so I can’t be that fucking bad at them, right? However, I find these vehicles nigh on impossible to handle. Now, I think this may be partially down to the fact I lost interest shortly after the annoying Gregorian chanted intro music and title screen, but I also think it MAY have something to do with the fact that the developers of this game didn’t really think it out. In fact, seeing as this game originally started out as a fucking REAL-TIME STRATEGY GAME, I think the developers may have been suffering from a case of either schizophrenia or diarrhoea which seemed to cover the entire stock of Halo printed discs in absolute shite. Either that, or they just decided that everyone else was making RTS games far superior to their own, and thought “Well, shit! Let’s churn out a generic FPS instead!”

Then Microsoft bought them up, and that condemned the game to be dumbed down for the console idiots (Yes, I am primarily a console gamer, but I know when a game is made easier for the beer-drinking mass market these consoles are made for these days)

While I’m on the subject, what the fuck is this whole thing about people selling out my heritage to the masses? I’ve grown up playing video games. I went through a hell of a lot of shit because of it too. And NOW, it seems that every fucker across the planet is playing video games. Now I’m trying to see the positive in this - more games for me to play because there’s a bigger market. But then I remember. These games are actually a big pile of polygons and testicles. They’re churning out all these new titles, sticking some fancy license on them and hey, they sell! Either that, or they milk the teat of some other franchise for all its worth. Yes, brilliant, I don’t need another fucking Sims 2 expansion. Oh, wow! New items! REALLY?! They’re just a mild variation on existing ones with a slightly different skin?! Oh, and a new area?! For me to do exactly the SAME FUCKING THINGS IN?! No, no, I think I’ll give that a miss and leave that to the deluded elders (Subtle dig aimed at you know fucking who. And if you don’t, good. Because you don’t deserve to know.)

Anyway, the only real positive is I now get to show those fuckers who rules in my little fucking realm. That’s the only positive. After all my time as the victim, I get positive reinforcement when I decimate these motherfuckers on the virtual battlefield. That, and, also, I get reminded that most of them are indeed jockeys of cock. But, maybe these people are the reason that I feel the urgent need to vent so ludicrously much online. After that, I remember that I’m exactly like this in reality as well, so I do quite frequently tell these people to get fucked. And then there’s a brief scuffle, which I’m generally on the losing side of. I must remember that in reality I can’t actually Hadouken. Oh, and by the way, everyone should listen to that band too (SEE! MUSIC! Now shut up) because they’re fucking ace, and if you disagree, you’re probably either a) an intelligent individual who actually managed to form your own opinion, or most likely b) Someone who decided that they’re not going to like this band because everyone else does. Seriously, form your own opinion for once. You either like something because you want to fit in with your friends, in which case you’re quite clearly retarded because who the fuck wants friends that don’t want anything to do with you unless you like the same bands as them? Fucking grow up! It’s that, or you decided to not like bands that everyone else does simply for the fact that people might think you’re cool or different. Well, guess what? You’re not cool. You’re a fucking idiot.

Speaking of fucking idiots, I just saw one of those National Accident Helpline adverts. They’re fucking great, aren’t they? It’s just a bunch of fucking retards who have “accidents” and want to milk it for all its worth. They call them accidents, but they are clearly just another reason why I should be allowed to shoot anyone that is indeed that fucking silly.

“I was given the wrong type of ladder” - Well don’t fucking climb it then, dickhead! Jesus, the only accident about that was the fact the bastard didn’t die when he fell! I don’t care if you can’t work, you’re fucking stupid for putting yourself in that fucking situation! I fucking hope you have life insurance mate, because you are almost certain to have another accident involving your genitals, a vice and a power drill. Well, maybe not an accident, but it will be self inflicted. And by self inflicted, I mean it will be inflicted by myself.

And the silly cow who tripped over a bit of strapping on the floor? GOOD! You’re a twat as well. You have to be a special kind of stupid to trip over that stuff. And even more so to actually fall badly enough to cause yourself any kind of damage. It’s a shame you didn’t manage it near a flight of bloody stairs, at least then I would’ve had something to laugh at.

I’m bored now. Video games can wait. Halo sucks balls. Gears of War is just as bad.

And Portal is the best game in the world. If you disagree, please feel free to let me know, and I shall politely inform you that you should jog on.

Friday, 30 November 2007

Do They Know...?

So, it seems a few people were calling my last “piece”, as I like to sound like I did something of significance rather than just babble on for over a thousand words about how much I don’t like something, “witty, hilarious baiting of the music industry”. However, MOST were calling it the “Deluded rantings of a twelve year old crack-addicted victim of gang rape.” Of course, as my last bit of writing demonstrated, you can’t trust a fucking thing the masses will have you believe, so fuck them.

There are many things that offend me about the music industry. The lack of decent talents, the fact that small labels cannot compete with the larger, even with the world wide web (which, as we all know, is 90% pornography, 9% torrents and 1% of actual useful information). I could rant on about these issues for quite some time. But bollocks to that, I have more bitter and twisted words to say than your mum has had clients back to hers for what she probably told you was “a friendly chat ”. She was lying, by the way, in case you didn’t already get the implication that your mother was indeed a hooker, who gave it up for 12 years after you were born due to a fumble in a back alley and a broken condom, because you may very well be one of the emo fucktards that I wrote about previously. There is more than enough anger and aggression to go around, so I’ll just start with something small and insignificant, much like your penis and/or breasts (because, as we know, the world isn’t image obsessed ENOUGH yet, is it? No, much better that you have just another insecurity to write poetry and cut yourself over)

Alright, I’ll be honest, the issue is not small, I just felt the need to insult you. In fact, this image is rather large. I’m fairly certain that you’ll be aware of it, even those that didn’t have a clue about that “scene” malarkey.

Bands who care. And I can assure you, I’d be writing care with those stupid little bunny ears everybody feels the need to make when they’re being sarcastic, if only there was a way of portraying those in this bloody works document. No, I don’t mean quotation marks, you silly little shitbag, I’m fully aware of their existence, they just don’t actually symbolize what I mean, they are, shocking enough, QUOTATION marks. As in, for quotes.

Anyway, that seems to have gone off the point somewhat, something I can assure will happen on several occasions during this particular rant, or anything else I write about, seeing as I don’t really have enough to say about one specific subject, so I get quite tangential so that you don’t actually notice that I’ve said bugger all. I think this previous statement proves my point perfectly, because I’m at the end of the fifth paragraph and still yet to write anything about the entire point of this.So, bands who “care” - Yes, I’m using them for the sake of the fools who can’t actually work out that I’m being sarcastic, despite the fact I told them 2 FUCKING PARAGRAPHS AGO! - I have issue with these people.

But why, you ask? “Why Jack?! You seemed like such an intellectual in your previous writings, and now you say something as stupid as this?!”. Yes, yes I do. Because these bands don’t care beyond their own publicity. See, I can see the confused look upon your faces already, so allow me to explain, using what would probably be the most prominent example. U2. Or, more specifically, Bono.

“Oh, but what about LiveAid?” What about LiveAid? Or Live8? Or LiveEarth? Or LiveGiveMeABigSackOfCash? I know they didn’t make any money directly from that event. Which is good, fantastic, super smashing great, in fact. People who needed that money or the publicity got it, and that I have absolutely no problem with. However, and I know some of you are wondering what my next point is going to be, so I shan’t delay you with any more filler sentences such as this one, what do you think they got out of it? Masses of publicity? A fuckload of record sales off the back of this event? And, I ask you, did ANY of those extra record profits go to the charity that in actual fact HELPED U2 and all the other artists to make more filthy piles of cash for them to roll around in? I think not. I may be mistaken, but I don’t think I am.

One thing I am sure of, however, is the fact that U2 moved their record label to Switzerland. What do you think that was for? The Swiss running out of money, and that U2 are supporting another impoverished nation? If you think that, then you probably don’t even understand what the word impoverished means, so I’d suggest you stop reading now, because, it seems, I may have some slightly controversial opinions coming forward now.

I think that they may gave done it simply for the money. Now, I know that the fans of U2 currently are unable to express their disgust at this statement, but that’s simply because they’re far too busy making out with Bono’s genitalia, which they are currently trying to dislodge from between their teeth. So, allow me to speak for them, yes?

Well, I could try to, except for the fact I’d need to remove two ribs, so that I could practice the art of auto-fellatio to teabag myself, to even BEGIN to talk as much bollocks as a brainwashed U2 fan can manage. That band currently have enough money to throw away thousands of pounds on suing someone, over a hat.

Yes, a hat. And, of course, with that sum of money, you’d expect it to be some sort of jewel encrusted golden crown. Of course, you’d also be wrong. It’s just some ordinary Stetson. Similar to the ones you’ll see Bono sporting every moment of his charitable existence. Well, in the moments between him walking from one of his luxurious mansions, of which he probably has more than the entire third world has houses in total, to his limousine (Helping stop world pollution too, eh Bono?), you’ll see him wearing these same bloody hats.

I digress. U2 are a bunch of hypocritical dickweasels who actually believe their own bloody hype. And while I’m on the matter, Coldplay can fucking do one as well. I’ve ranted on too long, so I shall just say this. What the fuck is wrong with you, you new age hippy dickhole? Naming your child Apple? Do you hate them even before they’re old enough to form a personality which, I might add, they clearly won’t be getting from their father, who is devoid of anything even resembling an interesting feature, right down to the constant gormless look on his face. Apparently he writes amazing songs, which I would class as an interesting aspect of his otherwise needless existence, except that I’ve yet to hear the bloody things. All I’ve heard are the atrocious albums they continue to release despite complaints from the UN of noise pollution.

I’ve digressed again. Shortly, Apple’s good old dad (Yeah, right, as if Gwyneth wasn’t working her way around Hollywood behind his back) has doomed the poor girl to a life of mockery. And not just because of the stupid fucking name (See, even I’m doing it), but down to the fact that her parents are Chris fucking Martin and Gwyneth fucking Paltrow.

I rest my case. Goodnight.

Thursday, 22 November 2007

This ain't a scene...

One of my friends, who shall remain nameless, as it makes it easier for me to lie through my teeth about who it is when being confronted by them, decided that if I were to write reviews of music it would be quite amusing. However, this clearly makes her an idiot as well as the STD ridden harlot that I previously assumed of her, as my taste of music could be nicely described as "bohemian" and not so nicely described as "fucking retarded," considering as I do Jeff Wayne’s musical version of The War of the Worlds to be the best album ever written.

I think this new range of emo/metal crossover, which neither side of the battle wishes to admit has anything to do with the other, sounds pretty much like a group of one armed Parkinson’s sufferers, consisting as it does almost exclusively of drop-D palm muted power chords chugging along with some semblance of melody, and I use the preceding term loosely, draped across the top in the hope that no one notices that this does, in fact, require very little talent, should you be the previously mentioned, or merely have lost a fight with a chainsaw and happen to be quite chilly whilst writing these songs.

Whilst I'm on the subject, let's talk about the "scene", shall we? Or rather, we don't need to, as you can look across myspace or whatever social networking site happens to be popular this week and see the results of this a lot easier. Effectively, the majority of music fans have become what I like to call "cunts". And the music is following this trend. I'm fairly certain these bands are actually writing the songs to fit in with the outfit they're wearing that week and in fact will eventually just turn into songs about how they were in love with their skinny jeans until they were caught cheating on them with a pair of tracksuit bottoms or some such other crap that no one could really give two shits about if it wasn't for the fact that for some reason this has become the trend, so they don't wish to feel socially outcast.

Here's an idea. Get a personality. It just takes one of you. Fuck it, shall we try it? Think back, when was the last time you enjoyed music? No, I don't mean when you were five years old and when you were enjoying Steps (Or *insert generic 80's band name here* if you happen to be Julia), but the last time you genuinely walked away from music feeling something. Yes, alright, fair enough, this "emo" is supposedly emotive music, but lets face it, the only emotion it makes me feel is my stomach acid rising and yet I'm fairly sure that's not even a feeling, merely a standard bodily reaction to having more shite forced down your throat.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, personality! The last band you enjoyed? Come on, don’t be shy! It can be anyone, even the aforementioned Steps if need be, because quite frankly all this Fall At The Disco or Panic Out Boy or whatever they’re calling themselves these days are exactly the same but at least Steps had the outright decency to admit they were doing it. Music is there to be enjoyed. Yes, it’s there to draw out emotion, but there are other emotions that aren’t “whiney little shitbag.” Deal with it. Oh, poor you, your girlfriend left you. So did mine, but I didn’t write a bloody song about it in the vain attempt to get some jailbait to come to my show and fellate me whilst I recite poetry about how fucking marvellous I look in my new H&M t-shirt, did I? Maybe if I did I would have other things to do in my time than rant about all the things I hate about the music scene today.

“Oh but Jack,” I hear you begin to cry already, “you only hate these bands because they’re famous now.” Wrong again, you smartarsed cockbadgers. I’ve not been a fan of Fall Out Boy since their first UK tour where I had the misfortune of going to see them, thanks to a free ticket and a mate who was in need of company. Having not heard of them, I naively thought that it wouldn’t be too bad. I stupidly thought that my mate had generally quite a good taste in music. Had I known then what I know now about F.O.B. (Which they shall be referred to at this point because am I fuck writing out the name again, despite this sentence explaining being far longer than the name itself, I’m not giving the snivelly little jam rags the satisfaction), I would not have gone to the gig and my friend would still be alive and not buried under my patio. Which, I feel, would have been better for all involved.

What makes me laugh more than anything is the passion with which these people will jump to defend what they call art and I call a big pile of gash. “Listen to the lyrical content!” “It’s so deep and meaningful!” “This music makes me want to masturbate with razorblades it’s so moving!” Here’s my response to these arguments. Go fuck yourselves, you unimaginative fuckholes. The lyrical content? And which lyrical content would that be? Oh, I do apologise, that has changed my argument completely! At least, it would, if it wasn’t for the fact that that argument is a bigger pile of toss than Michael Jackson being bundled by 8 year olds. (Yes, I’m aware that Michael Jackson was found innocent on all accounts, but quite frankly if you believe that you can go hang yourselves from the same fucking tree those emo fuckwits will be dangling from shortly). There is no lyrical content. At least, as far as I can tell. The only line that I ever considered clever from this so called musical genre is the brilliant line from F.O.B.’s “Sugar We’re Going Down” which is, I quote, “I’m just a notch in a bedpost, but you’re just a line in a song.” Now, the reason I like this lyric is simply for the reason that either women have starting notching bedposts in the same manner that us men supposedly do (Which is another subject which I won’t even get fucking STARTED on right now), or that our good friends in F.O.B. (that explanatory sentence is really starting to pay off now) do indeed smoke pole than the population of Brighton.

And, while I’m on the subject of F.O.B, the next person to call them Emo shall be administered a barbed wire enema. They are not emo, nor never will be. They are merely pop-punk. Admittedly, pop-punk without the sense of humour and with its head so far up its own arse that it’s currently wearing its sphincter as a scarf, but pop-punk nonetheless. Not that I really care for pigeon holing music that much, but if you’re going to do it, do it fucking correctly. It’s not that difficult! Even I can manage it and I’m barely capable of anything beyond basic motor skills and ranting endlessly on about music for a purpose none other than I bloody well feel like it!

So, in summary. Fuck you. Fuck you and your self righteous scene, because quite frankly you’re all just a bunch of sheep who need to realize that you are indeed being taken for a ride by the record industries in the same way that Diana was taken for a ride through an underpass in Paris. Either way, it’s going to end messily