Hey, don't drink that POISON! That's $4.00 an ounce!

The Ranting Treadmill: In which I fluidly insult my way through a series of highly fascinating and unrelated topics.



1: Reality TV.

I totally fucking hate reality TV. Big Brother, Fame Buggery Idol, Fuckin Pop Star... its just a freak show of a bunch of losers showing themselves off on TV, before persuing a FASCINATING career in... uh... nothing.

They're advertising for new Big Brother contestants on TV at the moment. Why the fuck do they have to advertise? Just make a giant mousetrap in the middle of Leicester Square with a piece of cheese in the middle, then put whoever's dumbass enough to try and enter into the house. I mean, it's not hard, dipshit.

The ANNOYING AS HELL Scottish twat on the advert says 'If you want to apply to be on Big Brother...' then goes on about some shit. I reckon this is how it should go:



Scottish Twat: If you want to apply to be on Big Brother, go outside now, pick up a brick, and beat yourself in the genitalia with it. Once you are sure that you have no chance of reproducing, dynamite your children and jump into a meat grinder. Knock your stupid-arse genes out of the gene pool.



The only one who's made anything of Big Brother or, as I like to call it, Electric Genital Cancer Boogaloo 4, is Jade 'HOLY SHIT IS THAT A WOMAN OR A MUSHROOM?' Goody, and that's only because everyone hates her so much the rage at her ugly face is stopping the lynch mob from giving her the roasting that she so thoroughly deserves. All these fuckwits with no talent calling themselves celebrities... leads me to my next point:



2: Talentless Celebrities

Actually...



3: Just Celebrities, full stop.

CHRIST. There are far too many celebrities about nowadays. In my opinion, to be a celebrity, you need to, you know, earn it. You need to have a talent at doing something that's far better than anyone else. What the fuck is the point in Tara Palmer Tompkinson? Does anybody know? It seems that she stays a celebrity by appearing on celebrity editions of lame game shows and as judges in celeb contests, and she only appears on them because of the fleeting fame gained by being on similar celebrity themed shows and... YOU ARE TOTALLY POINTLESS, WOMAN. Go back to cocaine.

There should be a test before you're allowed to be a celebrity. You should have to apply at a special board, "Celebrities, Un-Knowns, Nobodies and TV stars." CUNT for short (aha). You then show the CUNT panel that you have what it takes by producing the following things:



a: A list of at least 1000 fans who genuinely like/respect/want to be you.

b: Evidence of at least one discernable talent. And it has to be a good one.

c: Evidence of a recent project you have done thats purely based on your talent, ie. NO CELEBRITY THEMED SHOWS, DIPSHIT.



If you can't produce this, you get shot. Simple enough, methinks. Every celeb does this every two years. That'll kill off some of the chaff out there. CUNT is the way forward. And if there's one thing that pisses me off more than celebrities, its...



4: Celebrity magazines

Actually, magazines full stop. There's one way you can tell whether a magazine is decent or not. It's incredibly simple:



a: If a magazine refers to itself as a 'magazine', its got a 50-50 chance of being good.

b: If a magazine refers to itself as a 'mag', its most definitely gonna be total bollocks.



UGH. Mag. IT'S AN EXTRA FIVE FUCKING LETTERS TO WRITE MAGAZINE, YOU DIPSHIT. How fucking hard can it be? Also, anything, and I mean ANYTHING, that writes 'ish' instead of 'issue' deserves to be ritually burnt. I mean, I'm not much of a Nazi, but whenever I see the word 'ish' referring to 'issue', Farenheit 451 starts to sound an awfully nice temperature. And if that isn't a brilliant literary reference, I do not know what is.

I mean... who reads these magazines? I'll tell you who: Dipshits, retards, young girls, and old women. In fact, yeah. Old women and young girls. Here's the defining aspects of these magazines:



a: They usually have a cheery, upbeat, casual name. ie: HELLO!, HAVE A BREAK!, BELLA!, GOSH! Well, makes sense. I probably wouldn't want to read a magazine called FATAL BOWEL OBSTRUCTION, or LEPROSY FOR GIRLS.

b: They always have a cheery member of the target audience smiling on the front. Noticeably, this member is never black. The old woman/prepubescent girl is always made up to look beautiful, but still manage to reek more than the Hampton Boat House Toilets. The prepubescent girls often have braces, which makes me want to have some sort of electromagnet.

c: There is often a free gift on the front that nobody BUT the fuckwits in the target audience could ever want. ie: A FREE TRACY BEAKER WRISTBAND! or A PACKET OF PRIMROSE SEEDS!

d: They often have a seriously anti-man agenda. Whether it's dastardly men, or 'lads' (THIS WORD ANNOYS ME SO MUCH. ANYBODY WHO USES THE WORD 'LADS' SERIOUSLY NEEDS TO BE THROWN OFF A PLANE), us fellas always seem to get the worst deal. Well, guess what, you pansies, who do you think made it possible for you to read your dumbass 'mags', drink your dumbass tea and listen to your dumbass music? Oh yeah, men, shooting the Germans. So, uh fuck you.

e: There are always SENSATIONAL cover stories. ie: An interview with Harry from McFly! or, in the case of Women's Magazines, "My husband turned out to be my father turned out to be my mother turned out to be a penguin turned out to be a tree!" I now go into a sublist.



i: NOBODY CARES.

ii: SERIOUSLY, NOBODY CARES.

iii: Why don't you get any good stars? Oh yeah, cos NOBODY CARES.

iv: I might make a magazine for women, and call it NOBODY CARES, DIPSHIT. It would basically be 500 pages of me giving out false diet tips (for those of you allergic to fish, try eating fish fingers!), making fun of people's problems, and finally prescribing false medicine (yes, heroin will definitely make your sore breasts better).



f: There are horoscopes. Grr. But seriously, anybody dumbass enough to actually pay attention to a horoscope deserves... oh fuckit. And long columns of psychics. *Beats self around the head with a stick*.

g: Stories of women who dropped THREE POUNDS in ONLY A WEEK! Well done, fatso. So you weigh slightly less, you still look like a blimp. Lets give you a round of applause. You got stupidly fat because you're too sodding lazy to do any exercise, then you got highly expensive surgery, on the taxpayer's money, and now you're not quite so fat. High five, roly poly.

h: The letters page. Hoo boy. This is probably why Big Brother can't find anyone retarded enough to be on Big Brother. They're all off writing to the letter pages. Letters in these pages divide into several categories, he says, breaking out into ANOTHER list:



i: In old ladies mags, tales of what your HILARIOUS grandchild said one day. I don't care that he mixed up you and a tree, really. In fact, I hope he dies.

ii: Tales of how terrible a year you have had, but yet you soldier on. Well done you. You've had a terrible year. And now you're writing to tell us about it. I have actually considered writing to one of these magazines with the following letter, which I have just made up:



Dear Bella!

This year has not been good for me. I got breast, liver, lung AND cervical cancer, and my husband was run over by a drunk driver, who happened to be my son. Him in jail, all our money was stolen by a conman, and me and my three daughters were thrown out onto the street. I had to put my youngest up for adoption, the other has become a prostitute and the third is addicted to coke. Also, my entire family died in a plane crash.

But now I'm back on my feet, owning a chain of Barber shops, all thanks to you, Bella!



Yeah! That oughta shame the rest of the "My 98 year old father died and we all feel a bit sad" lot into shutting up.

iii: Showing solidarity for a star in trouble. So you think the press should leave Micheal Jackson alone? Well, good for you. The rest of us obviously don't.

iv: Girls Mags: Telling us how you think so and so is 'fit' or ... sigh ... 'buff'. 'Buff' goes on my list of barbed wire words ie. If you say it, nasty things involving barbed wire will happen to you. Do the stars give a shit that you think they're fit? No, they don't, so cram it.

v: Whinges. If there's one thing I hate (actually, there's loads of things I hate, but anyway...) its whingers. Boo.



Slowly running out of typing steam now....



I was going to go onto Horoscopes, Television Mags, Soap Operas etc, but I really can't be bothered now. Once the girl's/woman's magazines hit me, I just couldn't stop with the hating.



Apparently, these magazines are not 'aimed at me,' so I shouldn't really complain about them. But the A-Bomb wasn't aimed at the hippies, and they're still bitching about it. Ha ha. I totally hit you people with a logical DEATH PUNCH.



Nuts to this.



Kill zombies by reading them Bella Magazine until they rip out their own lungs with their feet, rather than hear any more.

Even Lynsey de Paul and Mike Moran did better than that in 1977 with 'ROCK Bottom' and they were shite!

This is a tribute to The Rock.

Possibly one of the most manly films around.



Basically, its about this evil dude who steals these missiles and keeps them on Alkatraz, so the American army hires Nick Cage and Sean Connery to just bust in there, kick some asses, and get 'em back. That's pretty much it. No time travel, no computer simulations, no deep philosophical bullshit, no dream sequences, no bollocks. Just a bunch of guys in army suits shooting the shit out each other to resolve their differences.



The reason I love this film so much is that it doesn't even PRETEND to be smart or Politically Correct. It's a balls out action film of the old school. There isn't an important female character (take that, you feminist morons), and all the marines are big manly men. Females are relegated to the position of hostage, and attractive pregnant girlfriend plot point. Homosexuals are relegated to a brief reference to gang rape in the showers, and as a queer hairdresser, who generally gets abused by the oh so manly Sean Connery. Dude.

It sets its intentions out pretty early on, when a hippy car is run over by a humvee. And then about four FBI cars. And, I think, a jaguar.



This film goes in my category of 'balls-out action films', only shared by two others: Face/Off and Broken Arrow.



Here are the similarities between these three films:



1: There is some sort of missile/bomb thats going to be set off in all three of them.

2: Two are directed by John Woo.

3: All three feature Nick Cage, John Travolta, or both.

4: In all three the main characters are men. Manly men.

5: Two of them feature rogue military sqadrons of some sort.

6: The missile/bomb gets set off in TWO of them.

7: They are all so ACHINGLY manly, it belies belief.

8: None of them feature Orlando Bloom, Julia Roberts, Hugh Grant, Colin Farrel, or many of the bollocks poncy actors of the day.



Yeah. So in conclusion: These films all rule.



Celebrity zombie killin' : Nick Cage

Let us drink, gentlemen. Let us drink, till we roll under the table in VOMIT and oblivion.

I have not blogged in TWO DAYS!

This must be some sort of terrible, terrible record.

Also, I think that my snail is dead. I have not given it much attention. And theres a nasty smell coming from its jar. I feel that the lettuce has gone off. Its black, and there's this random brown shit pooling in the bottom.

Not. Nice. At all.

Anyway. Here's a runthrough of the past two days:



FRIDAY

(For this, imagine it appearing, in white, on a black screen, with a loud CLANGING sound, a la The Shining. Cheers, babe)



Well, I woke up feeling like shit and I didn't feel much better throughout the rest of the day. You know the symptoms. Headache. Dizzyness. Stomach feeling like its gonna throw its contents out of the mouth at ANY second. Bleeding of the eyeballs. Stigmata. Tiredness. Sleepyness. Skin melting off. The usual.

I had the chance to skip school... my mum even asked me if I wanted to skip. Why did I say 'I'm ok?' I quite plainly wasn't. WHAT KIND OF FREAK AM I?

Anyway, I bravely soldiered through, feeling progressively worse and worse, and getting more and more pissed off at the rest of the class who seemed to find it a good idea to TALK, BREATHE, or MOVE near to me, which was making me dizzy. Finally, I thought fuckit, and went to the nurse. Her remedy? Two aspirins. She didn't even give me any fucking water, for chrissake.

After soldiering through maths, in which BIBBY KEPT FARTING EVERY 40 SECONDS, I returned to the nurse, complaining of total illness. Her response?

"Just sit here quietly until you feel better."

Well, thanks for that medical GEM. Thank God she doesn't work in ER. Can you imagine?



"Doctor, my daughter has caught her finger in this industrial press and..."

"Never mind. Here's a lollypop."

"But she's bleeding to death..."

"It's strawberry flavour."



Grrr. Anyway, after sitting there for about ten minutes, I got up and returned to Art. Actually, I felt immediately worse as soon as I left the room and started moving. So worse, that after fifteen minute of Art (MISS, I OBVIOUSLY FEEL TERRIBLY ILL AND DO NOT CARE ABOUT THE SODDING GOLDEN SECTION) I just thought 'fuckit' and left to go to the nurse AGAIN. See what gems she had for me now. Perhaps I could stop the nausea by standing on my head?

Anyway, she wasn't in, and I projectile vomited white shit all over the door to the bathroom. Three seconds away from the toilet. Yeah, thanks a LOT, God. Nice sense of humour there. Well, I guess it wasn't the best idea to eat a tuna-mayonaise sarnie for lunch but, yeah. Hmm. Anyway, blazer, shirt, tie, SHOES covered in fucking half digested tuna, I wander around until I found the nurse. Here was the conversation:



"Miss, I've been sick."

"Been sick, or feel sick?"

"Uh, been sick."

"Go to the medical room."



Which I did. And she didn't show up. I waited for 25 minutes, before phoning mi madre and going home. Seriously, I could actually have been heamorraging in there. My skin could have been melting off. I could have been kneecapped by the IRA. I COULD HAVE BEEN EATEN BY FUCKING ANTS IN THE TIME IT TOOK HER TO NOT ARRIVE.

Screwit.



And in other news, actually, you don't care.



SATURDAY

I woke up, felt a bit better, did a rowing race, felt much worse, waited around for about 3 hours, found out that I did shit, and went home. Thats, uh, pretty much it.



Kill the zombies with: The tuna/mayonaise sandwiches served up at my school. Sodding wanker sandwiches.



(EDIT: For all those who complained about the appalling use of Maths in my previous post, I have several points for you.

1: Get a life.

2: It was a deliberate mistake to flush out the losers who check out the mathematics on an internet blog. *Looks shifty* Yeah, that's what it was... a deliberate mistake. *Ahem*

3: I GOT 36% IN CORE MATHS AS. I MEAN, THATS TOTALLY SHIT. ITS THE SAME AS FUCKING... ROXXXAY. AND CASSIE. AND THEY BOTH LOVE MCFLY. AND DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT SOMEONE THIS GOOD AT ENGLISH GIVES A RAT'S ARSE ABOUT MATHS? AM I GOING TO BECOME AN ACCOUNTANT? NO, I'M NOT. SO I DON'T CARE, REALLY. VIVA NEXT YEAR, WHEN I CAN DROP MATHS, AND GO ONTO SOMETHING MORE INTERESTING. LIKE A STIMULATING CAREER IN WATCHING WALLS COVERED IN PAINT DRY. HAH.

4: Yeah.)

"If you put your friend into an unlicensed minicab, you could be helping a racist."

... Or you could not.

I mean, am I the only one who finds those 'unlicensed minicab rapist' adverts HILARIOUS? If I am, then the lot of you are fucktards. They're hilarious.



You have your (ethnically balanced) group of women dancing and laughing. You have them enjoying themselves. You have them DRINKING.

Now, anybody who has EVER seen ANY slasher movies ('specially Scream) knows that there are several things that get you killed by the killer.



Oh wait, one thing. News up on the radio today. Harold Shipman's kill count has now numbered about 250. Aww. That's my Harry!



Where was I? Yes, things that get you killed in Slasher movies:

1: Sex (well, it was a nightclub. There had to be SOME sexual antics)

2: Drugs (they might have had a spliff or something. You never know)

3: BOOZE (THEY WERE DRINKING LIKE FUCKING FISH)



So basically, sex, drugs, and alcohol. ARE YOU WOMEN RETARDED OR SOMETHING? Thats like, uh, those kids in Cabin Fever. YOU WERE IN THE MIDDLE OF AMERICA... JUST KEEP WALKING, DIPSHITS.

*By the way* Dipshit is now my favourite swear word, just pipping cunt to the top place. Huzzah.

And my ABSOLUTE FAVOURITE bit of this advert is when the rapist turns up at the end. This is why he's so evil:



1: He's tall and pale (shifty looking)

2: He's wearing a scarf. Eeeeeevil.

3: He has a trench-coat on.

4: He's frowing, and thus evil.

5: He's white.

6: He has a little stubble on his chin.



All these things combine to make the eeeeeeevilest man known to mankind. Or, not. You know what would have been hilarious?

If he had a t-shirt saying "I'M A RAPIST, FUCKWIT."



or he was wearing a Hannibal Lector style mask and a ripped straightjacket covered in red stains?

or he's, like, a clown, blood dripping from his fanged mouth.

or he's wearing a mask made of HUMAN SKIN, stained overalls, he's holding a rusty BUZZING chainsaw above his head and BELLOWING madly.

or he's Harold Shipman, back from the dead, delicately stroking a hypodermic needle and licking his lips.



And then, BAM, it goes into mute. Except now we have FAINT SCREAMS in the background, as ugly woman (who looks a bit like a fish) gets screwed. Totally.



And then they end up with some totally unimpressive statistic. Oooh, 9 women a month? Thats actually, so crap. I am so unimpressed, babe. There are 31 days a month, yeah? That works out as 3.444 women a day. What the fuck does 0.4444 of a woman look like?



So in conclusion, three women and a cripple are raped by EVIL minicab drivers every DAY. I mean. For fucks sake. More people are raped every day by... pigeons. Washing machines. Donkeys. Do we get adverts telling us to watch out for evil donkeys? I mean, we'd have our very shifty looking donkey, and our woman and... yeah screw it.



Nuts to THIS.



Zombie... zombie... zombie... zombie.... ZOMBIE NATION! Killed by shifty looking minicab drivers.

Great. Just 'cause I'm a SNAIL, I get slugged!

Today, I went snail hunting. This was for my ART GCSE. ART GCSE, OK? Not just 'cos I was a loser. And the experience of snail hunting was... woah. Intense, I tells ya. It was fucking intense. This set of a chain of ecents that would go on to change my life, and EXISTANCE AS WE KNOW IT... forever.



Cities were toppled.

Dictators killed.

Revolutions achieved.

The questions that have bugged us for the eternal millenia were solved.



I'm a changed man. Here's my countdown of what happened, in beautiful prose:



Thomas looked left and right, checking out every inch of the undergrowth. All was silent. But something was out there - his finely trained hunter's senses never missed a thing. Something was out there. Watching. Waiting. Far away, a bird chirped. The sound was strangely alien in his terrible landscape.

Thomas sank back down to the ground, and crawled on his belly. Suddenly, he stopped. Cocked his head to the side. He picked something out from the silence. It wasn't a sound, as such. More a presence. To the left. About a metre.

A single drop of sweat ran down his long manly nose and plopped to the ground. He stopped breathing. Turned. Yes, there it was. He saw a flash of it's scaly hide. It was now or never.

He darted forward and grabbed the snail in two hands. YES! He had succeeded! But suddenly, he stopped, turned in panic.

Too late. The other two snails leapt from above, ripping open his arm with one slash of their fiendish claws. Thomas screamed loudly at this terrible pain, then, in one fluid move, ripped the bowie knife from its holster on his thigh and SLASHED one of the snails through the eye. It screamed and fell backwards. The other retreated a step. Thomas, using the powers of Kung Fu taught by his wise and ancient master of Manliness, Olee Gie, performed a suckerpunch to its throat. It fell backwards, gurgling and spitting burning acid at Thomas's boot, burning through the inch thick leather. Thomas unholstered his AK47 Flamethrower, setting it to 'Fry' as he went, and hit the snail with fifteen thousand rounds of compressed head powered bullets, spraying it's guts all over the



Ok, this is not how it happened.



I wandered around in the cold for about 15 minutes in my garden. I found two snails, one big and one small. For the sake of clearness, they shall be known as biggy and smally. For now. Once in my room, only smally decided to wake up and start crawling around. Bless. Biggy just sat there and started oozing shit all over my desk. So I threw him out of the window.

MURDER! Yes, I know. But he was probably already dead. But just to be safe, tonight at 1.45, I'm gonna get up. I'm gonna find the body. I'm gonna drive it into an abandoned woodland somewhere. And I'm gonna bury it. And I'm gonna get away with it too! MWAHAHAHAH!



Anyway.



Smally then had to be named. Cos, you know, Smally is a shit name.

After a MSN vote (See, HOW COOL AM I?) it got the following series of names: Cassie, Sammy, Lance, Sniffles, Mr Sniffles, Jeff and finally Mr Jeff. I mean, how do you top Mr Jeff? You don't. You twat. So I didn't try to. Mr Jeff it was.

Mr Jeff crawled all over the jam jar (WITH WATER AND LETTUCE) that I'd provided for it, happy as larry. I decided that he needed more water, so I poured, like, half a glass in there. You know, to be safe.

I LEFT HIM ALONE FOR LIKE HALF AN HOUR.

When I returned, he was floating in the water. Motionless. Silent (well, he wasn't that talkative beforehand, but ANYWAY). Dead? Oh no. I picked up his tiny body in my hands, then sank to my knees.

"WHY GOD, WHY! NAAAAAAARGH! A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! MR JEEEEEEEEEFFFFFFF! WHYYYYYYYY? TAKE ME INSTEAD! AAAAAARGH!"

I wept many a tear. Ish. Before leaving Mr Jeff's dead corpse on the tin of golden syrup. I now had two corpses to dispose of, and I didn't know if I had the power to dig TWO graves. It was all going pearshaped. Here was my situation:



1: I'd kidnapped two snails from the garden.

2: I'd murdered one.

3: I'd locked the other one up in a jar.

4: I'd DROWNED the other one.

5: Would you leave me alone with your young children?



Shit. But then. The miraculous happened.



MR JEFF RETURNED TO LIFE!



Like some sort of heavenly visiter, his little eyes emerged from under his shell and he rose from the dead. He was fine! I had had my sins expunged. But then I realised. Mr Jeff wasn't the proper name for him after all. This snail had lived. He'd died. And then he'd risen from the dead once again. Dear God.



Mr Jeff Christ the Snail has now been moved to a much larger jam jar, and is looking forward to his first booking as a life model. For me.



Kill zombie-snails with: a big motherfuckin' pool of water.

And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious ANGER those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers!

I think that I have anger management problems.

I just nearly sucker-punched my printer. It was looking at me.

I've booked myself into a psychiatrist, and I'm thinking of going onto meds.

Well, actually, that's total bollocks, but I thought that it would be a good idea to start my post with something solemn sounding.

'Oh shit, he has mental problems'

as opposed to

'Oh shit, another hilarious, well written piece of bloggage from this young fellow who is well on his way to becoming a God.'

I don't care, really. I think that tragedy is hilarious. In fact, if I was writing a sitcom, it'd go like this:



MY SITCOM

Our hero, THOMAS, is reading the paper.

Thomas: Hey look, an orphanage just caught fire and all the orphans were horribly burned to death!

*Canned laughter*

Thomas: Hey look, a car with a young mother and her two infant children crashed into a firework factory and they're all horribly burnt!

*Canned laughter*

Thomas: Hey, it seems that the aid sent by the US to Thailand was accidentally infected with cancer beans! Shit, everyone has liver cancer!

*Canned laughter*

Thomas: Hey look, it seems that America has been nuked!

*Canned laughter*



Well, you can see how it continues from here. I mean, that would be a TV show AND A HALF. So, a TV Show TV S (ahaha!)



That reminds me. The best TV show EVER is on tonight. It has:



Violence

Death

Romance

The answers to all the big questions

War

Peace

Death

Blood

Knives

Love

Hate

Sex

Royalty

Death



What is this? Anatomy for Beginners. For those who don't know what this amazing piece of televisual art consists of, here you go:



1: They have a dead guy, and this German Evil Doctor cuts him open and points at the bits.

2: That's pretty much it. Except sometimes they have nude female live models.



This show is so cool. On Monday's installment, they managed to take off this guys ENTIRE skin in one go. It was seriously cool. It would only have been improved if they'd called a giant cockroach onto the stage and forced him to wear the skin like a human suit (a la Men in Black). It could have been done.

But this does beg two questions (this is a post of lists):



1: Who the hell actually wants to donate their body? What makes you wake up one day and think, "You know what, after I die, I really want Dr Death to cut me into little bits in front of a live studio audience and an enraptured TV audience consisting of mainly bored teenagers." Because, really, that's all who'll watch it. Teenagers and the drunk. Its too harsh for young kids, too late for old people, and too depressing for the adults. "Hey, that corpse sorta looks like me, except more healthy."



2: Why are Channel 4 marketing this as a science show? Nobody has any interest in science. We're all here for the blood. Because, really, the entire human race wants to rip off their skin and have a look at what's going on. Who's with me? Who's with me? Oh, well I do. I sort of gaze at my arm and think of biting off my skin. WELL SCREW YOU.



Last night's episode was pretty good, except they were eviscerating some ugly old guy. When do we get the fit naked girl to dissect? I mean, the least they could have done was give him some underwear; they weren't even dissecting his groin. Well at least they were able to cover over his personal area with his ribcage, once they'd chiselled it off.



But I have to say something about this show: It's good for your self confidence. I close with a statement said by a total GENIUS GOD (yes, it was me)



"Eww, there's an old guy on this show. Ha ha, I have a bigger penis than him. And I'm still alive. So its 2-0 to me, really."



Use zombies for a practical joke; Get Dr Death to cut them open on national TV and laugh hysterically as they come alive and bite off his nose.

I blasted the lawless element with PRINTER's ink and they returned the compliment.

Who the fuck invented printers?

I mean, for Christ's sake.

I have just had a five minute's yelling match with this grey piece of shit. I was TRYING to print a picture of a snail. For my art. I'm doing snails. This is how it proceeded:



(Imagine the voice of the printer as the sublime Douglas Rain. Twenty points for the first person to correctly identify the film reference)



1: Thomas switches effortlessly into third person.

2: Thomas hits print.

3: Thomas realises that you have to set the paper size manually on EVERY SINGLE PRINT JOB YOU HAVE TO DO.

4: Thomas cancells print job. Printer does not like this. It whirrs.

5: Thomas sets paper size, hits print.

6: Printer doesn't do anything. It clicks and whirrs.

7: Printer: I'm sorry. I have randomly fucked up, just to annoy you.

Thomas: F***!

8: Thomas cancells print. Printer doesn't like this. Thomas opens the lid of the printer to have a look at wtf is going on. The thingy slides along.

9: Ah, wrong print cartridge. Thomas removes the print cartridge. The printer thing slides back, gets jammed and SCREAMS AT ME.

10: Thomas swears. Thomas turns off the printer. It doesn't like this. It whines, like the wanker it is.

11: Thomas tries to put the print cartridge in. It doesn't fit.

12: Thomas finally realises that its the wrong ink cartridge, which looks IDENTICAL to the right ink cartridge. FUCK.

13: Thomas hits 'print'.

14: Printer: I'm sorry Dave, I can't do that. Print jobs stopped.

15: Thomas starts print jobs, hits print.

16: Printer: I'm sorry Dave, I can't do that. I'm just a big gay willy.

Thomas: F***! And my name isn't Dave!

17: Thomas punches printer.

18: Printer: Now that isn't going to help, now?

19: Thomas rants.

20: Thomas re-does everything, then hits PRINT.

21: Printer: I'm sorry, Dave. Just kidding. Here you go.

22: Printer prints. Slowly. Thomas breathes a sigh of relief.

23: The final print is PINK. PINK. FUCK.

24: Thomas: F*** !

Printer: HAHAHAH!



Seriously, I was THIS close to drop kicking the fucking thing through the window. It would probably have had an error connecting with that, too. Never EVER buy an HP printer. They suck more than a vacuum cleaner.



Screw this, I'm too pissed off.



Annoy zombies to death with A STUPID PRINTER THAT DOESNT EVER PRINT ANYTHING PROPERLY WHEN YOU REALLY NEED IT.



(EDIT: It took me about 5 minutes to post this thing, as blospot decides to be totally fucked. Gimp. Gayness. Has the entire computer universe decided to implode on me? Its 'cos I took the piss outta Bill Gates the other night, isn't it? Stupid ginger dipshit.)

Clarence the boy is dead. Say hello to Clarence the man... who just had SEX.

Thanks a lot, Steve.

You and your comparatively human boyfriend have totally ruined sex ed for me.

IT'S SEX ED. SEX ED.

THE MOST HILARIOUS LESSON IN THE WORLD.

The point of sex ed is to ask humiliating questions to a teacher too embarassed to answer them, and then snigger at the red faces and confused grins.

It's not to bash my head repeatedly against the desk to get IMAGES OF YOU OUT OF MY HEAD.

Arghhhh... *claws out eyes*

Thanks a LOT. What you gonna ruin next? Christmas? Of maybe you have your sights set on getting yourself on television. Yeah, well done.

Although, there were still some amusing parts of the lesson, in particular the sheet that went over the very odd animals. HALF A GALLON? And weird hook/sucker things on genitalia. And evil females covered with the genitalia of their prey. Oh wait, that's Steve again.

SORRY, STEVEN. I SHOULD STOP MOCKING YOU. YOU ARE ACTUALLY VERY NICE. In your extra-terrestrial way.



Anyway, in a smoooooooth link, here are a list of people who I'd love to teach sex ed:



Mr Clarke: Hahahahhahaha. Oh man, the questions I could ask. He'd probably just start stuttering until his jaw fell off and his brain melted out of his head. Huzzah. Actually. Dude. That would rule.



Thomas Carder: The author of the amazing capalert.com, the world's most hilarious christian website. An hour of him saying 'ITS EVIL AND YOU CAN'T DO IT UNTIL YOU HAVE BEEN MARRIED, AND THEN JUST THROUGH A SHEET WITH A HOLE IN IT' would be rather amusing.



Mr Scoggins: Huge new zealand boatie coach. He'd just growl at us, then tell us that we were 'shit', and that we were a bunch of 'fucking shits'. He isn't being mad. That's his idea of a motivational speech.



Jesus and Annika: The Spanish/German assistants. Jesus is a dude and Annika is just fun to look at. La di da di da di da. Huzzah, funny people. Plus, they do not speak English good. They no speaky English. They no English.



Arnold Schwartzenegger/Jean Claude Van Damme/Oli Gill: So manly, we'll probably get extra testosterone just from BEING in their presence. Especially the Gillster. He can give a rundown of his techniques.



Me: Come on, just imagine it. It'd rule. Especially with me making up stuff for the poor unfortunates who don't quite understand anything. Etc. Mwaaaahahhaha.



Homer Simpson: He's a cartoon character. Huzzah.



Fun Zombie Killin': Machete

Ohh, a lesson in not changing HISTORY from Mr. "I'm My Own Grandfather"!

Why oh why is our history classroom so much like a womb? I don't get it. Its a classroom! Its meant to be hard and bright and uncomfortable. But no.

The lights are always dim and nurseryish, with the blinds down. Its always snuggly warm. The chair is all plasticy, but is still soft and snuggly. And Mr Worrallo (more on him later) usually puts on a video. And as its History, its usually a guy with the most warm voice in the world talking, or a relaxing nursey-rhyme stylee Military Laugh, or the soothing sounds of battle. I mean, does anybody blame me for just... slipping... off.... to... sleep.

I mean, its not like the teacher cares. Today, I went off to the toilet, and when I returned, he asked me if I still felt sleepy.

Mr Worrallo is the dude.

I mean, he looks like a teddy bear. No, he looks like a teddy bear minus all the hair. ALL the hair. Heres why we love Mr Worrallo to bits:



1: He always wears a smart purple tie/waistjacket. And he obviously is very proud of these clothes. He got a new tie for chrimbo and has been wearing it ever since.

2: He went on a diet program called 'Fat Man Skinny,' and gives us 5 minute long updates on it at the beginning of each and every lesson. He also tells us about his diet problems. I rember with fondness the ten minutes he spent telling us about his favourite meal. A chicken dish, with a side salad. It did sound delicious.

3: He's got a wife. But is apparently good friends with Keira Knightley. I don't know how to spell it.

4: He has a nice warm voice.

5: He plays a video every other lesson. In fact, we do next to no work at all.

6: He's a pushover.



And now for the epitome of Worrallowness:



*Mr W enters classroom.*

ENTIRE CLASS: WORALOOOOOOOOOO!

Mr W: Hi boys.

US: WORRALLO! WORRALLO! WORRALLO!

Mr W: Ok, we have a lot of work to get on with today...

US: VIDEO!

Mr W: No, sorry boys. Lots of work.

US: VIDEOOOOO!

Mr W: NO!

*walks out*

*class looks around, confused*

*Mr W re-enters classroom with a video*

*We cheer*



Man, I love Mr W. He is a big fuzzable bear. Iggle him.



I have a picture of him as my phone's desktop wallpaper.

Really.



IN OTHER NEWS: I'm watching Deep Blue Sea. Four words: IT'S A SHARK, DIPSHIT!



Thanks.



Movie Zombie Killing: Pissed off shark.

When deep space exploration ramps up, it'll be the corporations that name everything, the IBM Stellar Sphere, the MICROSOFT Galaxy, Planet Starbucks.

Msn Messenger is fucked across the world...

You gotta hand it to Microsoft... when they mess something up... they mess it up all the way.

I bet Bill Gates did this on purpose. He's probably sitting on his evil throne of evilness, cacking madly, with his pocket-calculator of evil in one hand and 15 pens in the other. Man, he is evil.

Why doesn't the world just buy Macs? Macs are much nicer than PCs.



They are more beautiful.

They are clevererererer.

They don't crash for no reason. When they crash, there is a point. And when they crash, they crash GOOD. Like they semi-implode. Huzzah.

God uses a Mac. Its true. iDeity.

Its possible to maneuver around the screen. Which I like. I'm more or less amused by simple things.

Would a PC wake you up in the morning with a cup of tea before rubbing your feet and playing relaxing music to you? No? HAH! Well, neither can Macs, but on the other hand... uh... Macs look nice.

Macs can fly. Its true. Well, they can once you install the rocket pack. Which will be white, with lots of brushed steel.

iPod.

Um. I have a Mac. And I rule. Therefore, Macs rule. I rule. Huzzah to me.

Nuts to this.



Kill zombies with iButcherknife

And on the third day, God created the Remington bolt-action rifle, so that Man could fight the DINOSAURS. And the homosexuals.

Ah, deary me. Jurrasic Park. Still kicks the arse out of most dinosaur themed movies out there. Well, how many are there?

Jurrasic Park 2: Actually, also quite kickass. T-Rex taking out LA? Hell yeah.

Jurrasic Park 3: Apparently, they used real dinosaurs in this one. These dinos then ate the last half-hour of the film, meaning it ended before the good bit; ie. the kid and his ANNOYING PARENTS being eaten. Fuckoff bad.



But this is why Jurrasic Park kicks arse. And I know I have no idea how to spell jurrasic. Jurrassic? Jurraaasssic? Fuck this.



1: It's dinosaurs, man. Basically, big fuckoff monsters that spent their days eating each other. I mean, really big. Dinosaurs will never go out of style.

2: The Raptors. They just deserve a number all to themselves.

3: The T-Rex. Manages to be both the villain AND the hero of the piece. And its first act is to eat a guy sitting on the toilet, and step on Jeff Goldblum.

4: Jeff Goldblum gets trod on. And a tree falls on his head. Pity they don't take it all the way and have him getting addicted to morphine and just randomly dieing, like in the book. Although, in the sequel, he returns perfectly to life. So I don't know.

5: It's based on the only non-lame Micheal Chriton book in existence. Well, actually, I've only read four of his books. Heres a runthrough:



a: Basically, 400 pages about how the Japanese are evil.

b: Jurrasic Park I CANT SPELL IT, which rocks.

c: Jurassic Park 2 which has a character who died in the first book returning perfectly ok. Which makes fuck-all sense to me. Whats going on? Why do I care.

d: In possibly the best display of lameness ever, our main character is fighting millions of tiny robots. Ooh, scary. The thing with this book is that he spends about 7/8s of it leading up to the one moment of total lame action/twist. That... sucks. Boo.



6: A guy gets his arm ripped off. They bloody wankers at ITV cut this bit. Apparently a severed bleeding arm is not good material for 6:50 on a saturday evening. Why? We all have arms. We all have blood. I don't get it.

7: Two farmyard animals get eaten. Take that, you bloody cow. And also, you bloody goat. Theres a rather amusing reference to Return of the Jedi in there also. Which I'm not sad enough to point out.

8: Kids nearly getting their faces bitten off by raptors in the kitchen. Hahaha, losers. And that fat guy getting MINCED. You lose, lardo.



Scaly reptililian creature chewing on each other's faces? Well, that brings me on quite nicely to Joe's gathering last night.

(see what I did there?)



Yeah, there was lots of fun had by all, especially Oggster and *Shudder* Steven.

I should really stop making fun of Steve. Not because its mean. No, because if I don't stop I fear she will slither to my house, use her hooklike claws to go up the wall, slip through my window and rip off my face with her talons while I sleep my sweet dreams. Dear dear dear me.



Also, Oli Gill: You god. Anybody with the ability to pick up where he left off four weeks ago in a space of less than an hour gets my thumbs up.



Also, Joey-Joe: Your carpet is stupidly slippery, I'm disgusted that you didn't name your guinea pig Thomas, and your bass guitar is lovely. Now will you stop air-basing in class?



Also, I managed to slap Abi's arse 3 times, bringing me up to a total of four.



Also, I made Roxxxxxay moist.



Also, STOP FEELING MY THIGHS, CASSANDRA.



Also, screw this.



Movie Zombie Killing: T-Rex. Duh.

Ouiser, I'd recognize this penmanship anywhere. You have the handwriting of a SERIAL KILLER.

I heard this on the news today. Well, it wasn't really the news. It was the thirty second news update on THE CAPITAL BREAKFAST SHOW WITH JONNY VAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUGHN, but still.

It wasn't even today. It was yesterday. But fuckit. The sentiment is still the same.



"It's rumoured that Harold Shipman, Britain's worst serial killer..." blah blah blah, sponsored by O2, who are slowly sponsoring the entire universe. I swear. The Yanks are gonna land on Mars, and when they put their stupid flag there, they're already gonna find a sign saying 'MARS, SPONSORED BY O2'.



Anyway. This sort of misnomer really pisses me off. Britain's worst serial killer? No. I'm Britain's worst serial killer. I tried to kill a guy, overbalanced, fell down the stairs, slid into the street, accidentally stopped a vicar from committing suicide, saved a puppy from being run down by a fire engine, stopped the orphanage from burning down and caught an escaping crook. In trying to kill someone, I accidentally did the total opposite. I was more than 100% unsuccessful. I dare you to find someone worse at serial killing than me (who still has basic mental functions/limbs).



Harold Shipman, on the other hand, managed to kill his way through enough old dears to fill ten retirement homes, and nobody noticed for ages. They're still finding new victims. At this Serial Killin' game, he was a king. He managed to pull off 40 years of it, or whatever. He's not Britains Worst Serial Killer.



HE'S BRITAIN'S BEST SERIAL KILLER!



It annoys me that we put down a national treasure like this so easily. I mean, this is something that we could probably beat the Yanks on. Their serial killers may be more interesting, but I doubt that they could beat Shippsy's record. In fact, lets have a rundown of famous american serial killers, who may or may not be real, and probably aren't:



The (original) Texas Chainsaw Massacre family: Bunch of pussys couldn't even catch a scared wussy girl who spent most of the movie running around BLINDLY SCREAMING HER HEAD OFF. I mean, how retarded can you get? *does a retarded face* JUST SLICE HER UP, you spackers. And you were led by an old guy who, due to piss-poor makeup, could have been dead. I couldn't tell. Paper scissor stones, dipshit. Shipman beats Old guy.

Round one to Shipman.



The Guy from Se7en: Ooooh, Seven murders? I'm really scared, you bald penis. Admittedly, they were amusing (getting the fat guy to Spaghetti-O himself to death) but SEVEN? I mean, piss poor when compared to the Shipmeister's 200+. And also, you're dead. Shot by Brad 'Thelma and Louise' Pitt, who was holding his gun like it was glued to his hand and he was trying to shake it off. At least Shipman got to go out with a bang. Or, more accurately, a few knots, a gasp and a throttling sound.

Round two to Shipman.



Pennywise, the Clown from It: Shit man, that clown is scary. It also matches Shipman for pure evilness.

Shipman poisons old ladies, the Clown eats kids.

Shipman got away with it for 40 years, the Clown's been getting away with it since, like, the dawn of time.

Shipman has a scary beard, the Clown can grow fangs and claws at a moments notice.

A draw, maybe?

Oh christ. I just got it. Shipman and the clown are the same guy! Haha, take that Stephen King. Your clown wasn't killed by those weak-ass kids in your long and pointless novels, no. It was Scotland Yard the entire time. Shows you, Britain can do anything. Screw you.

Round three to Shippywise.



Vincent Price from Theatre of Blood: Hahahaha, there's no contest. I just felt like referencing this film, as its piss funny. Price, despite his many hilarious disguises, is one of the most dipshit murderers in the history of cinema. Lets have a list of his errors:



Hiring a bunch of drunk hobos as his servants. These hobos don't actually obey any of his commands, and give up all his secrets for whiskey.

Having a mysterious partner, who is quite plainly a woman wearing a ginger wig and fake ginger handlebar mustache.

Spouting reams of Shakespeare. This bit was just boring.

Setting fire to his own lair at the end of the film. By accident. Well, next time, moron, try NOT throwing flaming torches all over the place.

Having set fire to his lair, climbing onto the UNSTABLE, ROTTING ROOF in a bid to escape. Ooh, well done there.



Like I said, no contest. Shipman kicks his whining pussy's arse. Although, if Price was still alive, he would be my FIRST choice to play Shipman in the movie adaptation. Doctor of Blood? The Killer Doc? Return of Shipula? I don't know, but I'd pay to see the film. Judging by Hollywood standards, the entire thing would be Shippy swinging from ropes and kicking old people with machine guns into volcanos. I'd watch it.

Round four to Shipman.



Yeah, so basically: Harold Shipman is our BEST serial killer. And I haven't even gotten onto the subject of his first name.

HAROLD.

As in Harold Bishop from Neighbours.

And, going off on the tangent for which I am famed, here's my idea for the latest Neighbours plot twist:

Basically, Harold, pissed off at the total bollocks that always seems to be going on around him, loses it and starts killin' his way through the street. He starts by ramming Lou's head THROUGH his French horn, and kicking Sky into a well. Then he gets mad. Firstly: Summer and Boyd pay for all the free sodding milkshake's that he's sold them, and are forced to fight to the death. Then he feeds baby Oscar to a crocodile, just for fun, before breaking out the nunchuks and samurai swords and dicing through Susan, Libby, and Lynne.

Yeah, and some more stuff happens. Basically, the entire cast of Neighbours is killed in one hour long special.

Hell, I'd watch it.



Woah, I've devised two new entertainment spectacles in one post. Do I rule, or do I RULE?



Kill old-person zombies: Call Harold Shipman round for tea.

Ah, Oli gill. Total goddage.

My man. He has the ability to play women. Even though they are playing him. Or they are trying to. Its all so confusing. It's like a particulary fun episode of Coronation Street or, as I like to call it, RIPPING OUT MY EYELIDS WITH AN HIV ENCRUSTED RUSTY NAIL COVERED IN VINEGAR.



Anyway. The story so far: Cassie-Lou, in a bid of feminine wiles, has (cunningly) decided to FOOL Oliver into thinking that she love him. Oh, you cunning, cunning bag of organs. Here's HILARIOUS extracts from the thingumybob:



Cassie-Lou: i really really like you, and thats why ive been acting so weird

Oli: honeyyyyyyyyyyyyy... watttttttttttttttttttttt

Cassie-Lou: i just cdnt keep it to myself any more



What does Oli do? I mean, does he accept? Does he let her down gently? No. He does what any decent man would do.



Oli: u do no im gay ... rite? ...

Oli: not...jus wimpy im gay cos i cnt get girls gay

Cassie-Lou: theres no chance then? none at all?

Oli: [no] but if i think of crossin ova the ol line ill tell yeee

Oli: i cnt promise cos if im drunk at a party and cnt think straight it is unlikely



I mean... DUDE. Not only does he make up a fake sexuality, he also makes up reasons why he won't be sticking to this sexuality, and ALSO keeps the Cassie-Door open in case he ever gets really drunk/desperate one lonely night. Man. But there's more... read Oliver's detailed, meticulous description into how one turns gay...



Oli: u no wat happened with melissa ryt... hurt, heartbreak all that bollock...

Oli: it was then tht i realised that i nolonger had a fondness for women... it was an underdog feeling that i had had for

a long time but just ignored it



Wait for it... this is the killer...



Oli: with little things trickin me, such as starin at guys asses+crotches on trasins/buses... i jkingly 1/2 became gay... and it fit with everything id ever felt b4... im prob gna stay lyk this for a fair feww yrs yet

Cassie-Lou: does anyone else know about your new gayness

Oli: ffs EVERYONE

Cassie-Lou, inbred moron: no, no one tells me anything



Was she joking? Does she know that he's taking more piss than a dialysis machine? I don't know. But wait... It doesn't stop here. The story so far: Oli, knowing that Cassie-Lou was taking the piss... takes his EVIL REVENGE. Manly-styleee.



Oli: OI BITCH... TELL ME IF ITS FUCKING TRUE OR NOT



Blah blah blah... Cassie-Loud talks a bit inbetween (including some VERY interesting stuff, eh, dear?)... here's Olis entire rant, in its full made up skill:



Y THE FUK WOULD YOU DO THAT?! U NO HOW FUCKING SHITTY I FELT! SCUMMIER THAN WITH MELISSA!!!! IT HAPPENS QUITE A BIT! IT WAS A HELL OF A SHOCK! OUT OF THE BLUE, BUT Y THE FUK U SAY SUMTHIN LYK THT DO U THINK B4 U ACT?!

IF U DID THEN Y DNT U PUSH IT



This went on for about 15 minutes. Ah man, you are so funny. And drunk. Next time do Steve. *Shudders at mental thought*

Ok, Kris. Kris is easily confused. A different coloured font will probably do it for her...



Nuts to this. My hand hurts.





Movie Zombie killin' weapons: Pistol/Bullwhip

If you read under 50 words a minute, this BOOK explodes! Ready, begin!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Math is a wonderful thing. Math is a really cool thing. So get off your ath, let's do some math. Math, math, math, math, math. Three minus four is?

Where in the name of sweet Jesus's Moustache is my maths folder?

This baby has a term's worth of hardcore maths notes, sheets and most of my AS work in it.

And I've lost it. Bugger.

Actually, fuck it. I don't care about AS maths anyway.

Screw Maths. Especially core maths.

Core maths = God's idea of a joke.



For example, to find the remainder of a formula, remember that formula = quotient x divisor + remainder, so that if either quotient or divisor is equal to 0, then the remainder will be all thats left. Therefore you find the 0 factor of the formula and THIS IS SUCH UTTER BOLLOCKS.



Who cares? Core maths is even more bullshittyness than html code, and I only figured out the mysteries of html code by randomly copying/pasting bits of code all over the place and pretending I was a hacker (basically yelling reams of pointless, complex sounding technical dialogue at the cieling, while cackling madly).



Anyway, here is where my folder could be:



a: In my room - I am pretty convinced that this is not the case. Bollocks.

b: Somewhere else in the house - I don't think so.

c: At school. I hope not, 'cos if this is the case, its vanishing altogether. I'm never seeing it again. See e.

d: Somewhere else. See e.

e: In a lost dimension. Very very odd. Worriedness. Oh, fuck it. I'll just fail AS maths. I already failed the mock.



Run down zombies with a bulldozer...

An asshole! Life MOCKS me even in death!

Wayhey, mocks are over!

Time to kick back and relax... just as much as I was doing before.

Actually, I HONESTLY think that I'll have more work to do after we go back to school.

Anyway. Rumour had it that I had made a revision timetable. Unfortunately, they were true. On Excel *winks*. I'm cool, aren't I? Anyway, having realised that I didn't really need to do any revision at all, I sort of ignored it. But anyway, exams are over. Here's the conversation between me and my timetable:



TT: You'll never do it! You wouldn't DARE.

Me: Oh wouldn't I?

TT: You don't have the GUTS!

Me: Oh don't I?

*I turn on the shredder*

TT: You can't do this! You need me!

Me: NOT any more.

*Inserts the timetable into the shredder*

TT: AIIII! SAVE ME! I'LL GIVE YOU ANYTHING! DRUGS... WOMEN.... MEN?

Me: Ok.

*Presses reverse and pulls timetable out of shedder. The bottom is all ripped up.*

TT: Oh, thank god.

*Turns timetable upside down and re-inserts into shredder.*

TT: NO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Me: Read yourself. My timetable schedules a shreddin' at 10 o clock. MWAHAHAHAHAHA.

*Turns shredder on"

TT: I'll be back! ARGH!

Me: Yeah, sure.

*Thinks of witty comeback.*

Me: Rest in... PIECES!

*Laughs insanely and strokes a dog as the timetable meets its maker. Wait, as I'm its maker, it would have met me. Ok, as the timetable gets ripped into itty bitty pieces. Gimp.*



Yeah, that actually happened. Except for the timetable talking bit. Timetables can't talk. And even if they could... would they choose to? I don't think so.



Also, word on the street is that everyone did shit at Physics. Actually, that was told to me by (the epic) Mr Clarke as he jogged by. He also told me that he 'saw it coming'. Saw it coming? Your the sodding Physics teacher, you big muffin!



I feel that I need to take a second out to just describe Mr C:

He's a Physics teacher. Not a very good one. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen him pull off ANYTHING successfully. This is not a joke. He has like a 0% track record of doing stuff in Physics lessons. He's also a boatie. He was coaching us, but we took the piss so much that eventually he gave up and went back down to the J14s. Good, screw 'im. We get the cool New Zealand soldier teaching us instead.

Anyway, here are Clarkey's greatest hits, both on and off the water:



Teaching us radioactivity, telling us how radiation causes cancer while pointing the radiation gun thing directly at the front row of the class.

Turning on a Physics motor thing, then jumping as it breaks itself apart.

Taking an equation that most of us were able to do in three lines, then performing it in about 15 steps, covering two full boards, getting the wrong answer, then informing us that its 'the university method.'

Losing $500,000 in a failed business venture. "But its ok, it was OPP... I mean OPM," he says, displaying his amazing grasp of economic jargon. At least it wasn't as bad as we thought; word was on the street that he'd lost $6,000,000 on the stock market.

Managing to turn on a motorboat, crashing it into the launch and nearly flattening his fiance... while not being in the boat at all.

Getting me and the Bibbster detentions for writing his name on the board. I mean, its not fair. I didn't even write anything, i just did the shading. Piffle.

Having a mini-nervous breakdown in pretty much every lesson. A few lessons ago, he banned us from making any noise, so everyone started rusting their papers and going through their pencil cases really really loudly.

I'm sure that there are loads more, but I can't be bothered to go through them.



Yeah, but we love him really. He's adorable in his useless way. HENRY!



Also in the news: Temporary boats have been selected. I'm in the 4th eight. Happy, happy smile. Very contented. Also contented as Fish (lazy tosspot of the century) is also in here, and hes pissed off. Good. Fuck him. First race: Hampton Head, January 29th.



Also in the news: The mug heist has risen to 4. So far, no-one has suspected a thing. Huzzah.



Ah nuts to this; its my day off. I'm going to play Metroid.



Use a cricket bat. Zombie head... FOUR!

I just ate TWENTY FOUR of these cookies, but they're fat-free so it's okay.

Ah, 24. Show of gods.

For those that don't know, 24 is... actually fuck you. Go and buy it yourself.

Basically, its the adventures of Jack, one of the manliest men around. Like, he just wanders about killing people and blowing up buildings. I mean, he is by far the coolest. While the rest of his baby friends whinge and whine about an atomic bomb, he just goes about and GETS THE JOB DONE. No computer bollocks (24 is hilarious in this respect), no rubbish being nice to people, no political games. Just bloody rampage.

In this episode, he did the following:



Celebrated the blowing up of his office.

Shot about 7 guys.

Took out a dog with a shotgun (DUDE).

Knocked down a wall with a pickaxe.



That was just one day. I mean, here is a list of Jack's other greatest hits:



Taking off his chum's hand with an axe. AN AXE. Only topped by chainsaw for wicked-beats weapons. Actually there are loads.

Kicking a drug habit in less than 8 hours. Hardcore.

Murdering about 19 heavily armed europeans in about 40 seconds of fun.

Making out with a woman, then shooting her in the head a few hours later.



I mean, how much more manlier could you be? Well, I mean other than having a huge beard.

BUT OH WAIT. Who had a huge beard during the first few episodes? Oh, wait, Jack the dude did. He couldn't get much manlier unless he, like, actually MORPHED into Oli Gill and started air guitaring.



Hey hey! Peep Show is on.

Now, heres a bit of a mathematical equation:

Peep Show = Bloody genius.

Basically, its... no, fuck you again, watch the show yourself.

Its like punching yourself in the face repeatedly with a fish. Or a fist. You know. Its the most painful show known to man. Its LIKE THE OFFICE (SUBLIME GENIUS), BUT FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF DAVID BRENT. Hearing his thoughts. Huzzah.

Ah, man. This show rules. Except the new theme tune is a bit dump.

Here are quotes from this episode's genius:



"Come on man. Relax. Live a little. You could get brown shoes. Actually, better get black. Best not go mad."

"Keep feeling my foot. Please."

"Wow, free chocko. Tasty." ... "The extra ingredient is CRIME."

"Its cool. I'm not a stalker. I thank shop girls for their advice with chocolate."

"Good old Columbo. Just the one technique, of course. Still, SHITS on Quincy."

"Bez... well you know Flava Fla from public enemy?" ... "No." ... "Well its kinda like him. Except with maracas."



Dear me. I'm laughing too hard. Its hilarious.

So you don't get it. Screw you. Piffle.



Shooooot your zombos in the head with a SHOTGUN, fool!

Sorry, but I rule.

Isn't that a fuckoff good picture at the top?

I mean, it took me about 2 hours to learn the miracles of html.

Anyway, the zombie in the picture is called Eggy.

Yep, he's the reanimated corpse of my sim, who I haven't looked after for about three weeks.

Hopefully, his house has caught fire, the clown has returned and driven him insane, and he's wet himself to death.

Man, that would rule.

Anyway, 10 points to whoever manages to identify the guy behind Eggy's evil, evil face.



Using a super-race of ultimate power-boatie-zombies, Thomas kills off the rest of the gay little normal zombie wankers.

Authorization CODE "Shut up and do what I tell you."

OK, whos retarded idea was it to make up HTML?

I have spent roughtly two hours trying to figure out



a: How to make a picture.

b: How to upload it onto a page.

c: How to convert it into HTML

d: Where the hell to paste the html into the template.



a, b, c complete. But I can't for the life of me figure out where it goes, without totally buggering up the rest of it.

Batman, save me!



I'm hungry. Cook the zombies to crispyness. Mmmm.

We met once. You showed me a PICTURE of your dog.

How do I get a cool looking banner at the top of my blog?

You know, like this: http://garrethbrooke.blogspot.com/

You know, like that.

I could make a picture of a zombie. Rowing. Total coolage.



Ah screwit.

Anybody know?



Zombies, disposed of in a swift and easy manner with TNT.

Okay, Lazlow, MOCKery will get you nowhere. I think I might hit you now.

I started spacing out in my Physics exam today.

I mean, literally spacing out.

It was a question about space.

I was just staring at the paper and thoughts flew through my mind.



'Wow, space is just so big.'

'We are just so small.'

'Look, we are just a speck on the speck on the speck on the cosmos.'

'Really, would the big picture be affected if we just exploded now?'

'Nothing anybody does will ever really matter.'

'Everything is going to be forgotten eventually.'

'We're just a bunch of rotting matter on a piece of rock eternally plumeting through the dark cosmos.'



That last thought was the most unsettling. I actually considered holding onto my desk. You know, for protection. But then the most depressing thought of all hit me:



'If nothing matters and there are no long term consequences to anything... why the fuck am I doing this exam?'



Shit, man, scary days.



I have also discovered an amazing secret to Physics. In fact, to most of the sciences. Once you boil it down to the most simple, atomic particle level, as small as it gets... it still doesn't make any sense. Just playing the 'why' game can piss off a physics teacher after enough questions.

Eg:

"Generators create energy which can then be passed along to..."

"Why?"

"Why what? Why do they create energy, or why are they passed along?"

"Well, both. Why do they create energy?"

"Well, its through the cutting of the flux lines..."

"Yeah, but why does that create energy?"

"Well, its through..."

"And on that matter, how does energy even work?"

"What?"

"Well, how does electrical energy make things work?"

"Well, its through the process of coulombs, flowing through a wire..."

"Yeah, but how do the coulombs move?"

"Well, they are propulsed by the battery."

"I don't get it. How does this propulsion occur?"

"Well, like charges attract, unlike charges repel."

"Explain that. The physics of how this works."

"Well, it just does."

"Yeah, but there has to be a reason. It can't just arbitrarily work."

"Well, uh..."

"And what makes something charged?"

"Well, its protons and electrons."

"What makes them charged?"

"Um, positrons and quarks."

"What makes those charged?"

"Um."

"So basically, you have no idea how any of this works."

"Yeah, we do."

"Not on a basic level, though. You have NO idea why, at its lowest denominator, any of this works."

"Uh..."

"Its like space scientists. Smart as you are, you aint gonna find a reason for HOW IT ALL BEGAN."

"Yes, but



I'm going to stop that there, as I have just realised that I am having a long physics debate with myself over the internet. Now excuse me, I'm off to do something less painful, like sticking my finger into the shredder.



Toodles.



Electrifimigifyifylify the zombies with a Van Der Graaf generator.

Instead of blogging properly, Thomas just posts a song he stole off the internet...

When it's fiesta time in Guadalajara,

Then I long to be back once again

In Old Mexico.

Where we lived for today, never giving a thought to tomorrow.

To the strumming of guitars,

In a hundred grubby bars

I would whisper "Teo amo."

The mariachis would serenade,

And they would not shut up till they were paid.

We ate, we drank, and we were merry,

And we got typhoid and dysentery.

But best of all, we went to the Plaza de Toros.

Now whenever I start feeling morose,

I revive by recalling that scene.

And names like Belmonte, Dominguin, and Manolete,

If I live to a hundred and eight-tay,

I shall never forget what they mean.

(For there is surely nothing more beautiful in this world than the sight of a lone man facing single-handedly a half a ton of angry pot roast!)

Out came the matador,

Who must have been potted or

Slightly insane, but who looked rather BORED.

Then the picadors of course,

Each one on his horse,

I shouted "Olé!" every time one was GORED.

I cheered at the banderilleros' display,

As they stuck the bull in their own clever way,

For I hadn't had so much fun since the day

My brother's dog Rover

Got run over.

(Rover was killed by a Pontiac. And it was done with such grace and artistry that the witnesses awarded the driver both ears and the tail. But I digress.)

The moment had come,

I swallowed my gum,

We knew there'd be blood on the sand pretty soon.

The crowd held its breath,

Hoping that death

Would brighten an otherwise dull afternoon.

At last, the matador did what we wanted him to,

He raised his sword and his aim was true.

In that moment of truth, I suddenly knew

That someone had stolen my wallet.



... and it goes on like this for another verse.

Can I admit, with shame, that I did not write the above piece of musical genius. It was, in fact, an old comedian called Tom Lehrer, who sits at his piano and sings.

Amongst his cheery repertoir of songs are the following:



A call to arms for those who like pornography -

"Por-

Nographic pictures I adore.

Indecent magazines galore,

I like them more

If they're hard core."



A song telling people to be cheery about nuclear war:

"And we will all go together when we go.

What a comforting fact that is to know."



And, of course, his ballad about the joys of murdering pigeons:

"When they see us coming, the birdies all try an' hide,

But they still go for peanuts when coated with cyanide."



Anyway, what was my point about this guy? Oh yeah. Its 50 years old, and its still bloody funny. No swearing, no politically incorrect comment (actually, theres loads of that) and ... yeah. I dont think I had a point.

Oh yeah, all modern music is shit. Pretty much. And all modern comedians, with sort of the exception of anyone who has met anyone who has met Simon Pegg, and the writers of Monkey Dust, are all crap. So nerr.

Yeah, I didn't have a point. I just felt like posting some Lehrer on my blog. Is there a problem with that? I don't think so. Screw you.



All the world seems in tune on a Spring afternoon when we're poisoning pigeons (and zombies) in the park!

It's a pornographic magazine of truly COMIC book proportions!

I'm drawing a cartoon strip, as we speak.

It's a complicated series of artworks, symbolising man's obsession with tecnhology, and whether our nihilistic existence will eventually render null our spiritual existence. My main influences on this piece were Alan Moore, but there is also some Lichtenstein, Bosche, and even a slight touch of Picasso in there. My main Musical references were a Mozart/Bach combination. Mach, if you will (thank you Spinal Tap)

My art style, although simplistic, is also surprisingly complex, showing the full scale of the human soul in the faces and postures of my characters. You can SEE their internal conflicts. Anyway, what do I call this?



THE AMPUTATION OF STICKMAN 2

(note: this isn't a sequel. The character is actually called Stickman 2)



Panel 1: Stickman 1 is holding an axe above his head, above the leg of Stickman 2, who is holding it up, ready for amputation.

Panel 2: The axe is buried in Stickman 2's leg. Stickman 2 looks a bit shocked (black blob where mouth was)

Panel 3: Stickman 1 wanders off. Stickman 2 starts to work on his leg with a saw.

Panel 4: Stickman 2 is still working on his foot with the saw.

Panel 5: Stickman 2 is hopping up and down, holding his foot in one hand and the saw in the other.

Panel 6: Stickman 1 returns and looks at Stickman 2.

Panel 7: Stickman 1 steals Stickman 2's foot.

Panel 8: Stickman 2 looks pissed off and tries to get it back. Stickman 1 wanders off again.

Panel 9: Stickman 2 falls over.

Panel 10: Unable to think of anything for this panel, I just wrote END in big letters.



Yeah, thats it. It took roughly 3 minutes to draw. I'm unsure as to how to proceed from here.

I'm considering adapting this baby for the big screen. Using teenagers for the stickmen? Yep. Possibly including Stickman 3, who's job it is to throw up after the amuptation occurs. He'll provide comic relief while Stickman 2 is taking off his foot. This is a good idea. I feel that it has 'legs'.

Hahahahha... why am I laughing? That wasn't even a pun.

Nuts to this.



I would say kill your zombies with an axe, but I think that's already been done. So instead, use a hacksaw.

But Sidney's more than a mere bass player. He's a fabulous DISASTER.

Disaster to the heist!

Catastrophe!

A MUG WAS REMOVED FROM MY BEDROOM!

This is not good. I have altered the rules; Cups can be placed in the secret place as soon as I'm done with them.

But still... bad news.



Total mug count: 1 (this is bad)



Zombie Driller Killer: Pneumatic drill. Er.

It's the MUG rack at the end of the World!

My bedroom is like a magnet for mugs. I don't know why, but there are empty teacups all over the shop. I mean, it was emptied of them this morning and already there are two. I don't remember how they get here, I don't know how it works. They arrive, they build up, they disappear. My mugs are like mushrooms. Ceramic mushrooms with pictures of smoking cartoon dinosaurs on them and a faint sugary/tea coating at the bottom.

Anyway.

This is what I propose:



THE GREAT TEACUP HEIST



Basically, I hoard teacups in my room and see how long it takes before anybody notices. I'll pile them up and see how many I can accumulate.

Here are the rules:



1: Every night, just before I go to bed, the teacups shall be collected and placed in a secret place in my room. Although secret, this place WILL be accessible to anybody who really feels the need to search for my teacups.

2: Teacups must be taken from my room. No empty teacups from downstairs.

3: Teacups must have either been previously filled with tea/coffee, and they must have been drunk by me.

4: Getting empty teacups from downstairs is not allowed.

5: Making tea downstairs and bringing it up is acceptable however, the beverage must be consumed in the room.

6: Teacup numbers will be posted on the blog at regular intervals.

7: Teacups will be removed from the room under the following conditions:



a: I lose interest in the idea (very possible)

b: My room gets infested by ants (admittedly, unlikely in the middle of winter)

c: We actually run out of teacups (depending on how well the heist goes, very possible)

d: If an adult attempts to physically remove them, they will not be stopped.



8: Yeah, that's it.



Current teacup count: 2



Zombie killin' in Oz, the final installment: Buns.

Say, young whippersnapper, how would you like to be a part of the Universal/MCA CORPORATION?

Ok, time for my ultimate TV idea;



CORPORATION MEGA-WAR



For some, big corporations really irritate me. But on the other hand, people who whinge about big corporations being evil also irritate me. I'm only irritated if either side is shown as being the good-guy. If you showed me a bunch of hippies sitting in a tree from the hippies point of view ('we're saving these trees from being cut down by the evil corporations!') I would be cheering for the lumberjacks. Just cut down the fucking tree; screw 'em. On the other hand, if I see a corporate PR man telling us why the trees should be cut down, I pray for a sudden, deadly meteorite shower. So where does that leave me? I don't know. I would be happy if Apple and Pixar were the only big corporations left in the world. Ah, God bless you, Steve Jobs. *kisses iMac*



Anyway, fuck the politics, this is my idea. Again:



CORPORATION MEGA-WAR



Basically, you take two HUGE corporations. I'm thinking McDonalds and Coca-Cola, and you tell them that they have ten years to drive each other out of business. At the end of these ten years, if either is still in business, then both companies get shut down and all the executives get shot.

Sounds pretty sodding dull eh? Well get this: here's your hook. Both corporations are totally above the law when they do this. They are totally allowed to do any of the following:



Lie

Blackmail

Slander

Kidnap

Blow up their rival's factories

Shoot each other's CEOs

Steal

Poison each other's product

Make up lies about each other

Spy on each other

Burn down corporate buildings

Computer virus's (virii? I don't care)

Set terrorists on each other



Basically, everything you could imagine. Now how god-damn good would that be? Very good, I know. I'm a genius, thanks.

Just imagine:

The news: "Today, fifteen Coca-Cola representatives were killed by McDonalds suicide bombers. Ronald McDonald retaliated by sending tanks into the Cola Strip, killing fourty. Amongst the dead were Frankie McPostit, the multi-billionaire Diet Coke tortoise. American peace-keepers have withdrawn from the area, claiming that it was 'too dangerous, even for the American army."

Meanwhile, sales of Coke have plummeted after it was revealed that fifteen tonnes of powdered sarin were dumped into a mixing tank by a McDonalds Spy known only as the Happy Meal Poisoner. People have also stopped eating McDonalds food in fifteen countries, after Coke's assertion that Big Macs actually contain liquid pig shit.

Which they might, we don't know."



That would KICK ARSE. I rule so hard. Years of entertainment.



Zombie Killin' in Oz: Barbequeue

Don't you dare use the word PARTY as a verb in this shop!

Ah, Emmas party.

I got invited to a party. See, I have a social life too! And now I am writing about it in my internet blog to all my internet buddies. *ahem*. Still, here it is, in all its timeliney glory:

Actually, nobody had a watch so its all a bit of guesswork.



8:30: Thomas and Oggster arrive outside Emmas house. After wandering up the road a bit, they actually find it, and give Emma her present, the worlds most gay hat. It suits her.

8:31: Thomas realises that Kris is already smashed. He pokes her in the tummy.

8:35: Thomas manages to call Georgy fat.

(Backstory to this - at a previous party, I told her that she looked like James Zaremba, a boy I know. SHE DOES. But apparently, that's insulting. I therefore swore to myself that I would not insult her again)

8:36: Georgy looks insulted and leaves.

8:40: Thomas loses two laughing competitions with Mike.

8:45: Thomas consoles Roxxxxxxxxxxxxxxay over the loss of Busted. He makes a conscious, mostly successful effort to keep looking at her face, despite all the discussions going on about her boobies. I'm a gentleman, you perverts.

8:50: Someone's bra starts leaking, but then it turns out that it was just stuff spilt on it. My plan to make a sort of bib is mocked and derided.

8:52: Thomas loses another two laughing competitions with Mike.

8:55: Thomas mourns the lack of Oli Gill at this party. He always adds extra spice to proceedings.

9: Thomas and Mike realise that there is a trampomaline outside and go to jump on it. Thomas gets freakishly excited by the trampoline.

9:10: James (THE COOLEST DUDE AT THIS PARTY. MY THEORY THAT THERE IS ALWAYS ONE TOTAL DUDE AT ANY PARTY STANDS STRONG), with his crazy drink (I don't want to know what was in that), Abi and some other randoms come out to jump on the trampoline too. We have a sort of trampoline party.

9:15: Thomas goes on the swing.

9:16; Thomas has some big group hug with Mike, OGG, and everyone else.

9:20: Thomas goes inside and mocks Bibby. And then Kris, who is just giggling in a confused manner.

9:45: Thomas tries to go outside again, but is told that the neighbours are getting pissed off with all the noise.

10: Thomas has a conversation with Roxy and some other random people. He wanders off after realising that, after 20 minutes, he actually can't understand anything they are saying.

10:20: Thomas searches the house for Joe and Kris, who have disappeared.

10:25: They reappear. Thomas mocks Joe's choice of romantic hotspot: the road.

10:30: Thomas cuts holes in the empty Stella Artois box and wears it on his head, for some reason. Not sure why. He yells some words at Cassie the loser who couldn't come down the phone.

10:35: Thomas tells a random blonde girl that she looks like Paul Wilkinson, a fellow boatie. She takes it as an insult. Thomas decides that its probably a good idea to keep his girl/boy comparisons to himself.

11: Thomas loses another few laughing competitions with Mike. Thomas takes off the box and jumps on it in riteous anger. Thomas rips the box apart. He then draws a smiley face on one side of the card, and a sad face on the other, and swaps his mask around. Much hilarity.

11:10: Thomas loses interest and throws the piece of card across the room.

11:15: Accompanied by Abi, Thomas looks for Ogg and *ugh* Steve. Finds them outside. Not pretty.

11:16: Thomas attempts to rip out his eyeballs.

11:20: Thomas and Abi go and mock Ogg and Steve. Abi is depressed for some reason, and tries to run barefood down the road, NARROWLY avoiding a piece of ultra sharp glass. She gets about halfway down the road before coming back.

11:23: Thomas slaps Abi's arse really hard. She deserved it.

11:25: Thomas goes back inside and has groovy fun with his pal James.

11:40: Thomas tells Bob aka Hannah that her head is too big for her body. Thankfully, Bob is less offended than usual, only saying 'thanks' in a sort of sarcastic manner.

12: Theres a long period of leaping onto people on Emma's sofa. Much fun. James attempts to take photos of himself in midair, then runs through the house taking photos of girls when they are not expecting it. Thomas realises that James is a God. Abi looks morose.

12:15: All the couples wander off. Thomas sits and ponders how everyone he introduced has started going out.

12:20: Thomas sits on the stairs and has a conversation with everyone about the fickleness of life. He misses Cassie because he loves her so much. Ahem. Yeah... He wonders everyone else got paired with the easy girls.

12:25: Abi collapses in a depressed heap. Even Thomas's amazing comedy skill (pulling her face into a smile and telling her to cheer up) don't work.

12:30: Everyone starts to leave. Woo, party over. Thomas has A CONVERSATION WITH ROXY. A big milestone. Usually, its just:



Me: Hi ROXY!

Roxy: HI TOM!

Me: How are YOU?

Roxy: I'M OK!

We stare at each other, then both of us slowly back away.



But this time, it was an ACTUAL conversation. Well, ish. She made fun of my yellow lycra.

12:35: Emmas dad appears from nowhere, scaring the SHIT out of me. He complains that the neighbours are complaining about the noise.

12:37: All the girls start randomly screaming.

12:40: Oggs dad comes to pick us up. I invent a new system of hugging everyone goodbye; just raise your arms in the air and tell them to 'hug away'. I get nearly mobbed. That popular.

12:50: In the car home, Mr Ogg starts singing to Eminem. When we get stuck behind a police van, he yells 'FUCK OFF, COPPERS!' I realise that he is actually quite cool. Or drunk.

1: I arrive home and can't find my key.



Yeah, that was it.



Zombie Killin' in Oz: Kangaroo death kick.

Actually, my first violent act involved that ticking time bomb that I left in your uterus when I left. Happy 50th BIRTHDAY, Lois.

First things first: The title is from Family Guy, the world's most hilarious non-Good-Simpsons cartoon show. Are we agreed? Good. I am SO GLAD.



Second things second: It is the birthday of a very special girl. Well, a quite special girl. Ok, a bog ordinary lass, but we still love her. When I say 'we', I would appear to include myself in that group. I don't. I more view her with a wry interest, like a phrenologist would when shown a particulary malformed skull, possibly belonging to a monkey/man who was hit on the head with a monkey-wrench. Although that wouldn't really malform the skull, really, would it? More like crack it, and then the phrenologist wouldn't really care.

Ok, how about the skull of a guy who's head was squashed in a vice while he was a baby? Babies skulls are softer than normal people's skulls, they change shape, don't they? I don't know. So, this guy is, as a baby, crawling on the worktop of his father, who's a carpenter. Maybe it's Jesus? I don't know. Anyway, Jesus is crawling along the bench when he sees a piece of candy INSIDE the vice. So he reaches in to eat it, and BAM, the vice closes on his head. It was a trap all along. Herod, back to take his revenge. You bastard king, you.

Ok, so like a phrenologist looking at Jesus's malformed skull. Although, I think that he'd find it interesting even if it wasn't malformed. It was Jesus's skull, people! I bet he'd like to examine it to see if the son of God had bone problems. I hope he didn't. What sort of God is God if he can't even make his own son have perfect shiny bones? A bit of a fuckwit, if you ask me. Nobody ever does.



Anyway, I seem to have wandered slightly off the point. Here's what I wanted to say:



HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUCIA!



Do you reckon that I would have been able to actually go so far off the point that I go back onto the point again? Like a pikey looking for McDonalds accidentally wanders into a library. He wanders around, looking confused, scratching his shaved head and dragging his knuchles on the floor for a bit, until he walks through a plate-glass window and down a sewer. He floats down the sewer into a river, and is dragged onto the road by starving bears. He gets hit by a car and CATAPAULTED into a shop that sells catapaults. He then leaves the shop and BAM finds his McDonalds.



Maybe, just maybe, I'll shut up one day.



Nuts to this (In honour of Miss AAAAAAAAAAA Cup - I loved your pen like a son, until I repeatedly broke it)



Today's guest Zombie killer in Oz: Lucia, of course, with a didgereedoo.

Bring it on, BIG BROTHER tin man!

Big Brother is lame. Really lame. And even worse: it's a disappointment. For the last few years, I expected mediocrity. Oooh, big news, one of the morons has made some eggs! And now they are sunbathing! La di fucking da.

But THIS year, they promised 'Big Brother is getting evil'. And that made me interested. I could imagine how fully evil they could get. Hahhaa. And what did they do? Oooh, simulated army barracks. Great. Playing an alarm clock to wake them up in the morning? My god, you demons.

I mean, it really wasn't that evil, really. And they still all fell to pieces. Boo! Now if I had MY way (and ooh boy, I will), it would be really evil. I mean like pure venom in a TV show.

Here is how to improve the next Big Brother:



1: Firstly, build the house in a country with slightly more lax Civil Rights than England. Just some backwater shithole where it's still ok to beat your wife with a pole for burning the stew. Scotland'll do.

2: Don't have a garden. They are not allowed to go outside.

3: One of the things that irritates me about BB is that they always have morons for contestants. So what is propose is that we kidnap Oxford and Cambridge dons for the house.

4: Inject each contestant with something as they enter. Now seven of the eight injections are just laxatives (there will be no toilet, just a bucket next to the fridge), but the last will be an infectious disease of some sort. Something that'll start to melt the contestant after a few weeks. Leprosy, perhaps?

5: Have eight contestants, but only enough food for three people.

6: Pump testosterone into the drinking water.

7: Have no natrual light. Instead, have the entire house lit by neon tubes that will randomly turn themselves off for hours on end, leaving them in pitch darkness.

8: Play loud Morris-Dancing music while everyone is trying to sleep.

9: Don't allow them to leave, even if they want to. Can you imagine it?



Dave: I want to leave! It's so horrible here!

Big Brother: I'm sorry Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that.

Dave: But...

Big Brother: You may leave the diary room.



10: Have the voice of Big Brother one of those computer generated voices that sound really lame. It would just be annoying. And make Big Brother spout babble over the intercom for hours on end.

11: Every time someone is voted out, they are sprayed with pigeon blood and thrown to a bunch of ferel cats.

12: Fuck with their minds. Have chairs which get half a centimetre smaller every day.

13: Take away their watches, and replace them with a huge digital clock that goes just slightly faster or slower than normal time. Totally screw up their sense of time.

14: Put a junkie in the house, and tell him that he gets a fix if he gives Big Brother three human teeth. For more fun, have a junkie with no teeth.

15: Randomly add more housemates without increasing the amount of food or explaining anything to anybody.

16: Give them tasks which are JUST impossible to do in the time limit, or whatever.

17: Set fire/flood the house.

18: Make them wear the clothes you give them, which are transparent. Either make them several sizes too small at the beginning, or gradually make them smaller as the show progresses. Also, don't provide enough clothes for all the members of the house.

19: Infest the house with insects. Even better if they are poisonous.

20: Somehow include any of the following: Zombies, Snakes, Robots, Terrorists, Explosions, uh, Cannibalism, Devil worship etc.



Now, would that rule or would that RULE? I mean, when I think EVIL, that's what I think. Am I right? Am I right? Of course I'm right, I'm me.



OH EM GEE... I just had another idea for a TV show called 'Corporate Mega-War,' but I can't be bothered to elaborate. I'll do it later. Perhaps. After I've had a sleep.



Nuts to this.



Zombie Killin' in Oz part 2: Boomerang

A scientist? No, you're definitely a DENTIST. I could tell from the stupid smile on your face.

Would you trust anybody in the medical profession telling you that 'if you see blood, keep going'. No? I don't think you would. But that's exactly what the dentist said to me.

And it was a WOMAN dentist. A SCOUSER WOMAN dentist. And it wasn't even a dentist. A SCOUSER WOMAN HYGEINIST!

Not to be sexist, or anti scouser. Please don't hurt me.

Anyway, what is a hygeinist? Just like a dentist with a toothbrush. Except the toothbrush is covered with powdery shit that makes your mouth feel like you've eaten half the sodding sahara desert. Scorpions included.

Anyway, yeah. I went to Cassie's house after the dentist, and fell off her sofa. I have this random metal button on the back of my trousers (very badly designed, if you ask me) and I landed right onto that. Hurts like a bugger, and I have a red circle on the bottom of my spine. Sodding sod.



Anyway. Can we be serious for today? This week has caused for the splitting up of two ICONS of our modern age, which I feel should be subtely remembered seperately. But I can't be bothered to make another two posts, so instead they will be remembered together at the bottom of a post about the dentist:



1: Brad and Jen. The wonder couple have split up. Now, apparently this has made the most optimistic of the female population happy. Because, yeah, you ALL have a chance with Brad. The depressing thing is, we KNOW that both of them are going to remarry about 6 times each then die alone and unloved, hopefully dying of a hilarious disease/drug addiction. Deary deary me.



2: Busted. *Wipes away a tear* It's true, you don't know WHAT you've got until its gone. Kind of like cancer. Actually, with cancer you don't know what you've got until your penis falls off, but still. THE MAGIC THREE HAVE SPLIT UP! Yes, we will all miss the antics of Charlie, Matt and, uh, the other one, playing so many unforgettable hits as 'Thunderbirds' and, err... yeah. But we can be sure that their musical style will stretch long into the millenia. The torch has been passed onto the next savior of music: McFly. Those lad's aint splittin up any time soon.

Don't cry, Roxy. Here, take my tissue. It has ink on it.



OOH, one more thing: Neighbours update.

Our handsome young lad (BOYD, cunningly named to emphasise his 'boy'ish nature. You gods, you, Neighbours writers) is TRAPPED UP A TREE! With an angry dog underneath him. And evil, evil boys throwing buns at him. No, not a typo. Buns. High five.

Has nobody noticed that in Neighbours, all the evil fellow either have pierced noses or drink alchohol. ITS AUSTRALIA! I mean, you might as well give the troublemakers hats with corks on them and boomerangs.

AND THAT REMINDS ME. If Neighbours is so bloody Australian, where are all the kangaroos? And dangerous snakes? AND CROCODILE HUNTERS... WHERE THE FUCK ARE ALL THE CROCODILE HUNTERS?

I demand that somebody be eaten by a crocodile. Toodles.



Zombie killin' in Oz: Crocodile!

As what? A NAZI stooge like you?

Can I just say at this point...

Prince Harry = TOTAL LEGEND.



(for those who don't know... http://www.blink.org.uk/p...y=5540&grp=21&cat=94 ... he looks a bit like Jack the ginger boatie, actually...)



I mean, it takes some doing to piss off pretty much the entire world (except me).

But being a possible future King of England and turning up to a fancy dress party dressed up like a Nazi...

That's gonna take some beating.

No number of racist, sexist, baby-eating, peadophilic disgusting stupid ugly retarded wanker jokes are gonna top that. I'm gonna need to blow up a nursery or kill some nuns. Hey, that sounds fun. Pass me my gun, Tito.

*Realises that he neither has a gun, nor a small talking donkey called Tito to pass it*

Bugger.

Anyway, this is me in the morning:



Mother: Darling, here's a lovely cup of hot tea.

Me: Mumble.

Mother: Get up, darling.

Me: Mumble mumble fuckoff mumble mumble.

Radio: Prince Harry has been blasted for turning up to a fancy dress party as a Nazi soldier.

Me *sitting bolt upright* : YOU GOD!



That's how it happened. Ok, the character of my mother has been made nicer to enhance the dramatic sensibilities of the piece. I feel that it was a nice trade-off.



But, in conclusion. I am now monarchist, just so long as this Dude becomes king. Imagine him turning up to his Coronation. What should he be dressed as?

Well, I asked our studio audience:



The Littlest Terrorist: A jew. He'll need a face mask. With a big nose, and (Me: this went on for about 5 lines of the most stereotypical things that our little oil-tycoon could think of. Bless)



Roxy: A teddy bear, because then he will be accused of being a racist too.

(Me: Um...)



Mike: On a serious note: Whatever he goes as, it won't be right. OMG the Prince was wearing a suit to his Coronation today - this is no way for a Prince to act!



Ben: Saddam Hussein… something along those lines. Because he went as a nazi… duh.



Abi: HE WILL GO TO HIS CORONATION AS MARGARET THATCHER



Lucia aka the titless wonder (who I secretly love): A bag of nuts just so he can be crowned King Nutbag. This would make him my husband. So I'd be rich. Also, nutbags are amazing.

(Me: I have had to update this about four times, JUST to sort out the typos in Lucia's comment. This is nothing. She once sent me a text message that was just long one line of letters. It took a team of top British cyptologists about 6 hours to figure it out)



Cassie (at her request, I must say at this juncture that I also love her. Apparently. Don't ask me. Talk to her) : A tramp, because it would suit his incredibly rugged looks. Plus, it would be interesting to see him living in a cardboard box, waving a bottle of cheap whiskey around. His crown could be a paper bag!



Me: Being a prince, he should go as Prince. Aha, but not as in the royal sense, oh no. The pop star. Aha, but not as in the actual guy, oh no. The symbol. He should go as a huge foam Prince Symbol. With bobbly eyes. And a hooty nose.



Bertie: Cinderella. Because he's a prince. And prince sounds like Cinderella.



Mario: A big naked man. I like naked men.

(Me: Note: This may not be what Marios actually said, but he spent too long deciding.)



Nail those zombies... with a nail...gun. Mmm, thumpy.