You're locked in a jail cell with only a pack of cards, a lava lamp and a damp hankie for company. How do you escape?

Once again, I can't be bothered.

Yours truly: Gain the guard's attention with the hankie. Then, set up the lava lamp to give your cell a groovy look. Then play strip poker with him, but cheat by looking at his cards in the reflection of the lava lamp. Then steal his keys, lock him naked in the neighbouring cell with a bunch of sex starved inmates, then sit back and cackle madly. Tee hee. Oh yeah, then run away.

Ben-Ben-Benny-Benny-Ben-Ben: Light the cards and with the hankie go: "Argh! Help Help! I'm dying!" Then the jail officers come and go "Ooo no! Can't let that happen!" Then you hit the guards and run.

Roxxxxxxxxay: Take the hankie, stick it up your nose - left side preferably. This will soak up all the grey matter in your head, leaving you with nothing but a pot of peanut butter (the crunchy kind). Using this, you can mate the peanut butter with the lava lamp to make tiny gremlin babies with ears. Oh yes, ears. Buy playing cards with your new gremlin babies, you can cheat as much as possible. This causes them to overheat and explode, thus blowing up the jail cell and setting you FREE. Don't forget the gremlins though....

Cassoid: I would knock on the door, so that the guard would come, and then throw the cards at his face to create a diversion whilst I blow up the entire building with the lava lamp, as it is not actually a lava lamp, but a very pretty bomb. The hanky is useless.

Bertie: Shuffle the cards, play poker against the hankie. Place the lava lamp as a deal that if you win he gets to keep it and you get the hankie. If you lose, just murder the hankie and keep him anyway. A simple, yet effective plan.

Duckface: WHY THE HELL WOULD U WANT TO ESCAPE? THATS ENOUGH TO KEEP U HAPPY FOR A LIFE TIME!

The Unholy Monster-Demon Of Stevoid: Leave the lava lamp on until it gets really hot and set fire to the pack of cards with it. Decide to burn yourself to death and there is obviously no way of getting out. Use the damp hankie in case you change my mind half-way through.

Mike: Well first of all, I'd put the damp hanky in the lava lamp. This would cause a chemical reaction to occur, a very dangerous chemical reaction. So I would then throw the lava lamp into the wall causing a great explosion. Then 'cos the cards are plastic coated, they are dangerous. I could chop off people's heads if they stopped me from escaping.

Luciador: Well, I guess you'd probably have to build a card tower from the pack of cards, climb up it with the lava lamp, drop it so it smashed and freed the never ending flow of molten maga inside, then sit back and watch as the fluorescent lava melts through the wall of the cell. Then, you'd simply put the hanky over your mouth to protect from the noxious fumes and deadly pyroclastic flow, slide down the card tower and kind of surf on it to freedom.

Kris: Ask for the key.
Ahahhaha. I love Kris, now. She's like a sweet little Russian chipmunk.

Man, what a total shambles that was. I never knew what a fucked up idea of the basic principles of science my friends have. Oh well.

Zombie decapitator: A pack of DEADLY playing cards!

There needs to be more violence on television.

Yep, I think I've pretty much said it all.
Ok, I shall elaborate:
There needs to be more violence on television, and in particular, Cartoons.
Seriously. Cartoons nowadays are so fucking pussy. I turned to a cartoon today and it was some lameo ardvark feeling guilty because he'd broken his mother's vase or something. Booo. In fact, I have noticed a distinct difference between the cartoons of today and the cartoons of yesteryear. It basically follows a very subtle plotline subtelty that may be unnoticeable to all but the most devoted studiers of literature:

New cartoons: Usually, Character A does something bad involving character B (but not too bad, he just slightly disobeys B or something pussy like that) then he feels guilty/suffers the consequences of it and then he apologises to B, and they all have a big homosexual makeout session while pontiferating on the lesson they've learnt. These lessons are usually a POORLY disguised moral, ie: Never Lie, Don't play with matches, Don't make fun of people, Act Nice To Everyone.
NB: These cartoons are in no way funny or entertaining.

Old Cartoons: Usually, Character A is trying to KILL Character B. Character B is trying to not get killed. It ends with Character A having failed and being seriously injured. No message.
NB: These cartoons are usually fuckin' hilarious

Notice the difference? I know it's subtle and hard to notice for the dipshits who actually waste their time reading this, but IT'S THERE. In fact, let's simplify this even more:

TOM AND JERRY = FUNNY
ARTHUR THE PUSSY DIPSHIT AARDVARK = NOT FUNNY

Am I right? Of course I am, I'm ME. And BAM, this brings me onto the next thing that's pissing me off: Apparently, Warner Bro's have gone back and censored all the violence out of their old cartoons, as well as taking all the speech impediments off Daffy, Elmer, and Porky. The duck, the man, and the pig. Yeah, cos people are insulted by speech impediments. SPEECH IMPEDIMENTS ARE FUNNY. VIOLENCE TO ANIMALS IS FUNNY. Morals about not lying are, to date, not funny. Man, you fucking retards.

I mean, HONESTLY. What's the worst thing that's going to happen if some precious American kiddie watches Jerry beating the livin' shit outta Tom? I bet there are some cunts out there who think that it'll lead to him pickin' up a machine gun and shootin' his way through his school. Screw it, it doesn't matter. As George Carlin said, back in the olden days, that used to happen all the time and they just went on with their sums.
"Twenty four classmates... minus two..."
Hahahhahahhahaa.

Wait, where was I? OH YES. I watched violence in cartoons all the time, and it didn't screw me up. Well, actually, it probably did, but I watched my way through Tom v Jerry, Roadrunner v Coyote and Tweety v Sylvester, I laughed damn hard, and now I'm a sane member of society. Instead, what with all your moral bullshit nowadays, you will end up with a race of pussy children who cry like babies the first time they see a cat getting dynamited.

And ANOTHER THING (woah, this is turning into a full-scale rant). There need to be more references to explicit things in cartoons. I'm thinking drugs, sex, etc. References are funny, as long as they're not totally explicit. And where's the dipshit who said that drug references are bad for kids? I want to stuff your head into a big vat of vinegar until you die to death.

Let's do a role play. Little Jimmy is watching The Magic Roundabout, when he sees the bit with Dougal and the room full of 'sugar' WINK WINK. Here are the two possible outcomes:

a: Jimmy doesn't get the reference. The little moron actually think's its about sugar. NO HARM DONE.
b: Jimmy gets the LSD reference. He already knew about drugs. Therefore, he isn't gonna be warped by something HE ALREADY KNEW ABOUT.

So shut up, already.

Zombie killer: A safe. Dropped from a great height.

The Call of the Boatie

Today I went to Worcester head of the river (It's pronounced "Woosta", not "Wor - ses - ter", which is how I was saying it all day... stupid town) today with my boatie crew. After getting up at 6, long journey in a very warm coach and some other stuff, I go onto my real subject of debate: Braveheart.

What a total travesty that film is. Why does everyone love it so much? We were watching it on the coach ride home, and I managed to finish reading 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest', stare blindly around the coach, rearrange my underwear AND fall into a deep sleep AND IT WAS STILL GOING ON. I doze off. What do I see before I snooze off? A man in a kilt standing in a muddy field talking. I wake up. What do I see? A man in a kilt standing in a muddy room talking. Grr.

Here is a condensed version of Braveheart. Imagine it stretched out into its full 7 hour length:

Mel: I'm a wee simple farmer. I don't want to fight.
*Kills lots of soldiers*

Cut to: Mel in a field full of men:
Mel Gibson: Freedom, lads!
Army: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR.
Mel: ARRRRRRR.
Army: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR.

Cut to: The English King
English king: HEIL HITLER!
*does a salute*
We notice that he has devil horns, glowing red eyes and is wearing swastikas.
English King's son: I'm an evil homosexual, out to corrupt the manly men of Scotland. What shall we do now, father?
King: MWHAHAHAHAH. Let's burn down the children's hospital.
Son: Yes, let's, as we are english and evil.
*Both cackle madly*

Cut to: Mel Gibson in front of some Scots
Scots: Let's go home, as we are hopelessly outnumbered AND we are just scots. We are SO the underdog. Let's just give up.
Mel: No way! Freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom courage freedom freedom freedom Scotland freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom SCOTLAND!
Scots: YAR!
Mel: YAAAAAAAAAAR!
Scots: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!

Cut to: English King
King: MWAHAHAHAH!
*throws a baby into the fire*
King: Let's invade Scotland and burn everything down!
Son: Yes, lets! But father... what about the women and children? Do we burn them too?
King: ESPECIALLY the women and children! Mwahhaha. But before we burn them... lets rape them!
Son: MWAHA!
Father: MWAHAHHA!
*they high five and go back to shooting Jews from the balcony*

Cut to: Mel being tortured
Torturer: No freedom!
Mel: Freedom!
*torturer cuts off Mel's limbs*
Torturer: No freedom!
Mel: Freeeeedom!
Torturer: Shut up, you twat. You're not even Scottish.
Mel: Yes I am! Wee. Yar.
Torturer: Piss off, you australian.
Mel: For the last fucking time, I'm not australian. I'm american! Oh, shit.
Torturer: Aha!
*Beats Mel to death with a digereedoo*
*The Australian kickboxing team parachute in and start breakdancing to 'Kung Fu Fighting'. Everybody, including Mel, leaps up and starts doin the batman dance*

OH SHIT. I just heard that the little midget in Kingston was murdered today. This is not cool news. He was like a fucking national treasure. More on this story if I can be bothered.

Zombie killer; Rock, thrown by Mel.

Blood and snow

SNOW DAY! Wicked.
I get so childishly overexcited by snow. I run around giggling like a schoolgirl, grabbing huge handfuls of it and throwing it in the air, such is my joy at a fresh fall of the white stuff. So today, when I woke up, I glanced out the window and screamed "SNOW!". Well, I didn't actually scream it. I didn't actually say anything. But somewhere, in a small part of my mind, something yelled 'whoopee!' and clicked its heels. So, yeah. I would have run down the street yelling 'Merry Christmas Everyone,' and throwing out presents to all the little kiddies. Well, I would have. Several problems:

a: It's not Christmas.
b: I'm a tight git, and certainly don't plan on spending money on the pikey midgets who make up the children in my town.
3: I was wearing t-shirt and a skimpy pair of boxers SEXY DU SEX and, therefore, my pure amount of goddamn sexyness would have broken up half the marriages in town.
d: I... can't think of another reason.

Yep. I like snow. That's probably why I enjoyed the ending of Scarface so much. It looked like it was snowing on his desk! Yeah. That, and the fact he was machine-gunning his way through a small army of stinkin' colombians. Or something. I don't know, it was cool.

So yeah. Fastforward four hours. The start of first break. Man. Our school has a huge field behind it. And. it. Was. A. Fucking. Warzone. Mwahahhahahahhahaha. Seriously, that was funny. It was just a HUGE bundle of flying snowballs etc.

Then HCC came out to play.

For the MORONS who don't know everything about our school, HCC is the 'ahem' Pikey School next to ours, filled with, as Mr Fisher says, "shaved monkeys". There is a slight bit of friction between our two schools, which mostly happens at our shared fence. At SOME point, some bright spark thought it would be a good idea to dig a ditch between the two schools. It doesn't work. In fact, it just means that, instead of punching each other through the fence, our two schools wind each other up to explosion point. Like static electricity or something, I don't listen in Physics cos Clarkey is a TWAT.

Basically, as soon as HCC came into the picture, our ENTIRE SCHOOL rushed to the fence. It was like bloody Braveheart, the number of snowballs flying around. Well, there weren't any snowballs in Braveheart, to speak of, but there were quite a lot of arrows. Were there? I can't remember because, see, I wasn't paying much attention to Braveheart, really. In fact, I spent much of my time gazing at Mel Gibson's hairily manly legs and imagining somebody cutting them off halfway through the shins. Lets see you fight for freedom minus half a metre of flesh/bone matter, you australian/american prick. Mel Gibson is entirely too up himself nowadays. The Last Passion of Jesus, or whatever it was called. An entirely pointless film. Everyone knows he dies at the end. The ONLY way this film would ever be good was if Jesus, like, suddenly pulled out a machete and rips his arms from the cross. Pontius Pilate yells 'get him!' angrily, and a hoard of Roman Soldiers appear, swords drawn, but Jesus, in his manly style, picks up his cross and uses it like a hammer to NAIL those Roman bastards to the ground. Pilate growls... 'seems like I'd betta sort this bastard out myself,' and pulls out A SUBMACHINE GUN, and starts liberally spraying bullets at Jesus. But Jesus just calmly puts his hand out, matrix stylee, and the bullets stop/fall to the floor. Look, Jesus is the son of God, he can do ANYTHING, right? Then the American army comes and skylifts Jesus back to the safety of Miami to the girl, a New York Street Hooker with a heart of gold, he left behind. Happy Ending. THAT WOULD HAVE MADE THE FILM LIKE 1000000x better.

Anyway, so the HCC/HAMPTON war was broken up when Mr Flood strolled onto the pitch, looking small and self important, like a rooster with a bad suit, tooting an air horn as loudly as possible. We very slowly wandered into English. Well, all except Pete, who disappeared, before reappearing at the end of the lesson, waving a Pink Saturday Detention Slip. His reason? "I hit Mr Flood in the eye with a snowball!"
And, with those words, he earned my utmost respect for the rest of the day.

So, yeah. Fastforward another 4 hours. End of school.

It was like the staff room on the road outside our school. There were so many Hampton teachers hanging around. They KNEW there was gonna be a Hampton HCC confrontation. And there was A POLICEMAN. Lol rolf etc.

So me and Bertram (brother) were walking along the road towards the car of mother, when Mr Thomas appears at the end of the road, and yells at us. "Lads, could you get the, uh, Police. Please?"
So, being the upstanding citizen I am, I sloooooooooooooooooowly walked back down the road again, looking a bit embarassed, and asked the guy wearing the uniform, the hat and all the badges whether or not he was policeman. Turned out he was. So, after about two minutes discussion, we wandered up the road again. Then Mr Policeman started running down the road. Turned out somebody in my French Class had been thoroughly beaten by the pikeys. Hahahaha. No. It's not funny. He could have been seriously injured. *Sniggers*

Yeah, so that was that. I could say more, but really, you'd have to be a real sadcase to care.

Zombie killa: Snowballs

Now I'm not usually one to blow my own trumpet...

... he says, lying through his GRITTED TEETH...

But is my new blog banner picture not the most achingly cool thing ever?
In case you were wondering, yes, that is Gary Oldman's body.

Hell, yeah. That totally rules.

COOL BEANS.
WICKED DONKEYS.
COOL DONKEYS.
WICKED OATS.
ETC.

Nuts to this.

Other honourary zombie killer: Leon, the Professional.

Manliness has a new name...

... and that name is Leon.

Man, this film kicks such a legendary amount of ass, its amazing. Its about this french hitman fella called, uh, Leon, played by Jean Reno. And he's very lonely, killing fat mafia mob bosses, drinking huge amounts of milk, wearing fucking cool glasses, doing many sit ups and looking after his pet plant. Then, as luck would have it, the family next door to him are brutally murdered by an evil cop, called Gary Oldman. Well, not all of them. A 12 year old girl called Matilda (Natalie Portman playing a rather creepy - she's fit but she's really young does this make me a peadophile? - roll) survives, and Leon adopts her for some reason. Then logic flies out the window and he starts to train her to be a hitman too. Ah, screw it.
Then everything gets topped off with one of the best goddamn gunfights EVER. I mean, CHRIST. It is basically one man against an army and he TOTALLY WINS.

This is a GOOD film. Gary Oldman is bloody hysterical in one of his most over-the-top evil roles of all time. I especially liked the scene when he gets totally fucked out of his head on pills and runs rampant through an appartment with a shotgun, shooting women, children, and fat fucks, quoting Mozart and whooping at the top of his voice. And he has the best fucking final last words ever. In my opinion, Oldman should be in every film. Fucked off his head, massacring people with a shotgun. Hell, it would improved Harry Potter. And Lost in Translation. And, oh god, Meet the Parents. Fuckin' Ben Stiller. Annoy me with your silly ears, will ya? And you, Bobby De Niro. For shaaaaaame. Well, your time is up. Meet GARY OLDMAN. Man, he is just to goddamn manly. He should be my new banner. The Monkees are already getting old.

Jean. Reno. Is. A. Fucking. Legend. He's a French guy, yet he manages to make the audience feel two emotions towards him:
a: A sort of 'aaah' emotion, like one would give a kitten or a pebble shaped like a particulary cute puppy.
b: A sort of HELL YEAH emotion as he hangs mafia hitmen, shoots white rastifarians in the head and takes down a wall with an axe.
And he has a pet plant. And yet, this never seems odd. They should bottle Jean Reno and sell him. THAT would be a perfume I'd wear. It'd be the smell of fresh sweat, beard, and blood. Man.
Hahahahhahaha.

My favourite quote of the film:
"Leon, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a... cleaner."
"Does that mean that you're a hitman?"
"... yeah."

Hahahahhahaha. I rule so much. So yeah, Leon and Gary Oldman's character enter my list of manly movie men which consist, mostly, of Ash from Evil Dead, and Oli G. Yeah, I know he's not in the movies, TECHNICALLY, but porn films count, don't they? A ho ho. And nature documentaries have been shot in his hair.

SCREW YOU. Please.

Honourary zombie killer: Gary Oldman, in Leon.

Steam let off...

Wow, long time no blog. People must be shrivelling up into little balls of flesh and a phlegmy vomit substance without my genius prose to guide them through the long dark days of winter. Yeah.
But the fact of the matter is, I have been annoyed. And when I am annoyed I cannot blog. In fact, when I'm annoyed I can't do much except wander around, babbling curse words and punching things. Well, things that can't fight back. Like walls. I actually might have anger management problems. Or, on the other hand, to put it the other way, I... don't.

Yeah.

So I got TWO DETENTIONS IN TWO DAYS! Wicked, wicked beans. I mean, that's more than the Gillster, this half term. Although, to tell the truth, Gilly is still beating me overall on the detention count. At the last tally, he'd managed to rack up a fucking incredible 36 hours and 40 minutes of detention time. I mean, shite. Even Jack Bauer (of 24 fame) didn't manage that much, and he spends his days like, shooting terrorists (AND DOGS), saving the world from moles/ backstabbing ex-comrades/ hackers/ clowns/ terrorists/ Muslims who also happen to be backing the president/ running CTU/ his old best friend/ his wife's killer/ dead/ holding his daughter hostage/ etc. Yeah. Still, Oli Gill: DUDE.

So yeah. Lets have a backwards countdown of detentions, as I think everyone will agree with me when I say the first one is much more amusing. So, yeah.

Detention 2: PHYSICS

It's not my sodding fault that Mr Clarke can't keep order in his lessons. Note to Clarke: Everyone hates you, you wrinkly faced, stuttering, boatie-shaped, moped riding, physics teaching gimp. Note to everyone: Clarke lost $500,000 on the stock market. But it was OPM (other people's money). So that's ok then. Moron.

Anyway... TALKING? What sort of bullshit detention reason is that? It's not as if he was doing anything interesting. And I sure as hell don't want to listen to some git answer a question about something uninteresting. I mean, I wasn't even saying anything. Well, actually I was. I was telling Ogg to ask Clarkey if the moon could concievably be a continental crust that had somehow floated into space. I don't know. Why were we doing Geography in Physics, anyway? That's the reason I dropped Geography in the first place: I DON'T WANT TO DO IT. Grr.

Yeah, so Clarke used his deadliest weapon against me. No, he didn't make me sit at the front of the class, nearest to him. That would be punishment enough. No. He WROTE MY NAME ON THE BOARD. Shit, the word 'Phipps' sitting up there like some foul beacon of my crime was enough to make me fume and call Mr C nasty names for the rest of the lesson, before subtely diving under the desk to eat Hot Cross Buns. That is my method for eating in class: Hide under the desk. Mr Clarke is the ONLY one who is daffy enough to fall for this trick. So, yeah.

And you know what was the worst bit? I thought he'd forgotten. I walked out of the classroom at the end of the lesson, clicking my heels. It was parents evening. HE TOLD MY MUM. What a complete gimp. But, on the other hand, he also told her that I'd make a good Physicist and she told him point blank that no way in a 1000,000 years would I even consider doing Physics A level. So yeah, screw you Hezza.

*Note: This is off topic, but amusing. Apparently Worrallo asked my mother why I fell asleep in so many of his lessons. Hahhahahahahhaha. He's noticed me dozing off, and yet he waits until parents evening to say anything. And I'm still the best in the class AND MAYBE EVEN THE YEAR. Apparently his face lit up and he had a mini orgasm when he learnt I was doing History A level. Bless him and his little glasses!*

*Note: Also off topic. Apparently, I'm the only one in my maths set who isn't taking maths to A level. Does anyone know why this is? Yes, you're right. Because I'm not a FUCKING MORON. Have a nice day.*

Detention 1: French.

This one wasn't even my fault! A certain gimp (ahem, OLIVER GALE GRANT or, as Mr Orr calls you, George) happened to scrawl a message on my exam paper. I also happened to add a note underneath his sentiment. Then I happened to forget about these scrawlings, and hand the paper in. Ah, screw it, see for yourselves:



Hahha. The big letters were me, the pencil was him, and the small writing saying 'apparently' were me also. The ring around it and the 'unacceptable' were the french teacher. Grr. So we both got detentions.
I spent the entire detention cracking my knuckles! I think I've caused myself serious injury! HURRAY! No, seriously, I was doing an ergo (topless, ooooeeee, hold onto your skirts, girls. Actually, don't.) and my middle finger cramped up and felt like it was no longer connected to my hand. Odd. Hmm.

*Cracks knuckles pensively*

Oh yeah, and Joe Bibby has a giant hickey. Hahahahhaha.
A ho-ho.

Yeah.
(How many times have I said 'yeah' in this essay? I don't know. Or care, really.)

Nuts to this!

Kill zombies with: Pencils. Lots of pencils.

I am full of angry teenage hormones today

Here's a list of things I have got angry with this evening:

My calculator
My maths book
My maths file
My ink eraser
A piece of paper on my desk
My pen
My mother
My printer
My USB pen
My USB pen cable
My ruler
My brother's printer
My sister's computer
My mother, again
The USB port on my sister's computer
Commas
The Emperor Ing, final boss (I think not... but I don't know) of Metroid Prime 2: Echoes.

Yeah. I like being a teenager and yelling at things. I don't think my ink eraser or my calculator will ever be the same again.
Fuck 'em, I don't care.

And I don't care what anyone would say, Captain Scarlet could take ANYONE.
FACT.
In fact, FACT to the power of infinite.
Yeah.
Grrr.

Honourary zombie killer: Me, in the mood I'm feeling.

Captain Scarlet vs The World

After some rather disturbing comments on a previous blog, in which somebody apparently thought that the Thunderbirds gang and the Stingray gang could take Captain Scarlet, I feel that it is my duty to share this photograph, taken by a secret surveillance satellite in Italy three years ago:



Hahahahahaha. Man, that rules so hard. Especially the way I showed the Thunderbirds man shitting himself. *Grins*
And I never watched Stingray, so I had to look up the costume on the internet. If I remember correctly, Stingray was the lamest piece of shit to grace TV. First off, the theme tune was some wanker singing 'Marina' over and over again. I mean, even Thuderbirds had a better start sequence than that, and THUNDERBIRDS was just a countdown. So yeah. I'm counting Stingray as just a sub-par Thunderbirds clone. Stingray is like a series based purely around that little submarine thing that falls out of the big motherfuckin' green Thunderbird engine and, as such, if Captain Scarlet can kick Thunderbird's ass, then he can totally knock the shit outta Stingray.

Agreed? Yeah, I think so. So this is why Cappy S can knock nine shades of puppet shit out of Thunderbirds:

Captain Scarlet is properly proportioned. The Thunderbirds crew all have giant heads. You know what giant heads say to me? Headshots. Easy ones. Oh, and who is it that gets a gun? Oh, CAPTAIN SCARLET. So yeah, thats the first point: Captain Scarlet would be able to knock their puppet brains out of their wooden skulls before they'd even goofily puppet-walked across the puppet room. So one point to CS.

Of course, their's also the simple point that, as well as being a crack shot, a coldblooded killer (remember... he threw an unarmed woman off a dam) AND being fully combat trained, Captain Scarlet is also INDESTRUCTABLE. Which means that however many times the Thunderbirds wusses bitch-slap him (as their daddy doesn't allow them guns), he isn't going down. Even PAUL couldn't kill Captain Scarlet, and he is damn good at beating the shit out people. Literally. Yeah. So yeah, two points to CS. It should be infinite points, as really that ends the entire matter, but I haven't got bored of blogging yet so I should continue.

Captain Scarlet has a cooler backup team. Well, actually, anybody is cooler than Brain, or nerdling, or whatever the fuck his name was. He had a huge bulbous head, glasses, and a stutter. What does Captain Scarlet have? A black guy. A wussy black guy who doesn't seem to be able to walk, sure, but still a black guy and, therefore, with 100x more street cool than the hippest white dude. So yeah. And to counterbalance the blackness of the black dude, the head of Captain Scarlet's gang is a white guy with white hair. Called Colonel White. Colonel White is a serious badass; I reckon he eats babies and bayonets pregnant women in his spare time. He could probably take the entire Thunderbirds gang just by glaring at them. And who do the Thunderpussies have? Their dad. So yeah, great one there. Another point to Captain Scarlet.
Also, they aren't dipshit enough to have fucking ROCKETS. I mean, for fucks sake. How expensive is rocket fuel? Fucking massively expensive, I say. Then you have to launch the rocket, fly it across american soil WITHOUT it being shot down, find 50 square miles of land to touch down on, then take off and LAND EXACTLY IN THE SWIMMING POOL AGAIN. All this to save a couple of shitty little kids who fell down a mine. I saw one great episode of TB when they were unable to land the rocket on a mountain range, so they had the rocket land on another spaceship. Man, the Thunderbirdians are such dipshits. Compared to CS's SPV, cars which can be used to blow up old women, chase down terrorists and ram planes, the Thunderbirds look a bit shit, really.

Bases: Well, this one is a draw. Although the huge Spectrum building is wicked beans, especially the way it is permanently hovering in the air, seemingly without any propulsion systems OR fuel, it, uh... I can't think of any drawbacks. It kicks so much ass. On the other hand, Tracy Island is... an island. And it, uh, has palm trees that fall over. What the fuck am I say? Spectrum shits all over Tracy Island. Another point to CS.

Women: Lady Penelope, although fit, doesn't compare to the team of fit flexible French Pilots that CS has backing him up. Their job mostly seems to be blowing the shit out of stuff, GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME. Wicked donkey beans. In fact, the men aren't bad either. Now I'm not gay, but if you absolutely HAD to sleep with a puppet, you'd choose Scarlet, really. I mean, he's:
1: English (good).
2: Handsome, in a wooden way.
3: The puppet equivalent of James Bond.
4: HIS HEAD IS THE RIGHT SIZE.
Yeah, man.

Cooler enemy. Captain Black, a mean mofo who has no problem with killing thousands of people for no reason, compared to... what? The Hood, who, uh, dresses up in masks. Yeah, right. Captain Black would have repeatedly rammed the Hook off the road, before running over his bald head with a big stone and then dropping him into a pencil sharpener, before eating the sharpenings. Captain Black is THAT hard.

And finally. Captain Scarlet's mission is COOL. I mean, cooler than the Thunderbirds. They have no mission. Saving people? Boring. Boooooring. BOOOOOOOOOORING. Those people shouldn't have been in that cave in the first place, really. Why should I spend 40 minutes watching them flying about in their pussy rockets to save some whining kids? No reason at all. On the other hand, Scarlet spends his time killing aliens, blowing up shit and saving the world from being destroyed by those Mysteron BASTARDS. It's like the most violent puppet-related thing ever. In one of my fav SCs 250 men get massacred in the first ten minutes, and nobody gives a fuck. It ends with a comedy ending that rips the piss out of the US government. I mean, how much does that rule? Lots.

Captain Scarlet is like James Bond (good James Bond, not lame 'ooh look at me and my magical invisible car' James Bond), and Thunderbirds is like Fireman Sam. Nothing wrong with Fireman Sam. In fact, I wonder. Who would win a duel to the death between Fireman Sam and Postman Pat? Hmm...

Yeah, so in conclusion: Captain Scarlet rulez, down in da hood.

I sound like such a geek.

Oh well, fuckit.

Honourary Zombie Killer: Captain Black... DUDE.

Lalalla

This is a test post. Ignore it.
I SAY IGNORE IT.
You didn't ignore it, did you?
Well, fuck off.

Now I have to include a zombie killer, so it's a proper post. WELL DONE.

Kill zombies with a boulder.

A tale of Aborahs...

Went to Abi's yesterday. It was, as usual, very Abi-ish. Abi, why do you always look slightly drunk? I don't get it. When she opened the door and saw me, she sorta slurred "hello Tom". Actually, it was less a slur, more like she was laughing. I don't get it. Abi is funny, though.
Other than that, yeah. It was a pretty alright night. There were two main highlights:

1: STEVE WAS BACK FROM SKIING! This led to two rushes of emotions:
a: Oliver turning into a horny sex freak.
b: Me turning into a fully fledged insulting freak which was, frankly, much more interesting. Steve deserves it. Here are a few of my favourites:

Count Von Steve: They kept throwing urine snowballs at me?
Captain Me: Well, you've had worse things thrown at you. Bricks... burning torches... atomic bombs.

Joe *looking at the Steve's t-shirt*: Whats that say on your t-shirt?
Steven: 54. It's my age.
Me: Or your head-count.

Steevie: Our shower totally got blocked up! The drain was really small.
Me: Or were you moulting?

Stevenberry: I have a cut on my face because I fell over.
Me: Or was it an angry villager with a pitchfork?

I have realised that these don't actually sound that funny in the retrospective. But fuckit. Here's me at my MOST amazing wit:

Steve: *tells uninteresting skiing story* ... and then our instructor said 'girls, we are off piste'.
Me: You must have been piste off!

Hhahahahahahha. Ah man, I totally fucking rule. Yeah, so that was highlight number one. Now, for highlight two:

b: "Justin"
I can't say who it is, because then "Justin" would kill me for giving away his secret, but "Justin", for valentines day, sent Duckface an FOUR PAGE LONG LETTER. And it was fully typed on both sides with a picture of a PIXIE ON IT. And he QUOTED SHAKESPEARE. Now I'm sorry, I don't usually mock people's romantic attempts (actually, who am I kidding, I've probably spent more time doing that on this blog than any other thing) but this deserves mockage. And yet, I didn't scream at him mocking phrases as soon as I saw him. So "Justin" should stop being a bitch.
But THEN he slapped my ear for no reason, quite hard. It was PAINFUL, so I did what anybody would have done, and yelled 'you fucking Shakespeare-writing valentines card cunt!' ... which I think was fair. So yeah, "Justin" is now pissed with me. But who cares? He writes Shakespeare in valentines cards. Fuckim.

NOTE: "Justin" IS NOT "Justin". It's, uh, "Justin". Ahem.

Loves ya, babes.
So, yeah. And we also watched Mike Bassett : England manager, which is a FUNNY FILM. Well, it was in the mood I was in. Hahahahah. Dude I rule. Screw this.

Oh yeah, and for all the peadophiles out there, I'm gonna be in Kingston today. Check out the band playing at the Bentall Centre. Actually, fuck them (not literally... ugh). Check out the POSTERS! I did one of them. Well, I helped. I wanted to stick a picture of a scone in the middle of one of them, but NOBODY HAS A SENSE OF HUMOUR. And then Fati's allowed to draw a WAVE ON ONE. It's for the Tsunami. Grrr. So yeah, fuck you.

Um, good. Eviscerate Zombies with a long rusty hook.

Dun dun dun, dundundun DUN!

I just watched Gerry Anderson's New Captain Scarlet on tv.
Five words: What the fuck was that?
They totally bollocked Captain Scarlet up. Firstly, it was computer generated. But it wasn't good computer generated, oh no. It was lame '6 in the morning Channel 5' animation. ie. all the textures were off, everybody looked like they were floating five centimetres above the ground, and none of the lip syncing was right. THE LIP SYNC LOOKED CRAP, COMPARED TO PUPPETS. Man. But that's not all the fucked up.

The start sequence was screwed. Ooh, look at us with all our explosions and flying hovercrafts. FLYING HOVERCRAFT? What in the name of SHIT was that? One of the greatest bits of the original show was the vaguely creepy opening sequence, with Scarlet cold-heartedly gunning down an un-named mobster fella. That start sequence was COOL.

And, shit, they made Captain Black into a whining pussy-boy. In the original, Captain Black was HARD. You didn't get to see him much, and when you did, he was busily killing women and children and not saying very much. Even though he was a puppet, whenever he showed up, you knew somebody was gonna die painfully. He was SCARY, because you didn't know much about him. Well, scary for a puppet. The new Captain Black is some total wuss. Ooh, look at me, I'm prancing about with my robot spider and I'm TALKING. The original Captain Black wouldn't have just tied Captain Scarlet to a telephone pole, right next to the bomb, before mincing about and telling him THE ENTIRE PLAN. Fuckin' moron. No, the original Captain Black woulda beaten Captain Scarlet for like twenty minutes with a length of garden hose, before cutting the strings holding up his legs and arms and dumping him in the middle of a desert, covered in termites, so his face would be eaten and all that'd be left were his nice coat buttons.
And the Captain Black in the original looked HARD. He was all skeletal and ill looking. A real mean mofo, he's likely to blow up your face just because he hates you. He was that sorta guy. The new Captain Poof looked like Mr Bean. I am not joking. What a fuckin' dipshit. He couldn't beat up a woman, as abely proved in this episode when he failed to beat up a woman. Christ.

And they also broke the most important rule of Captain Scarlet: Make it simple. I couldn't tell what the hell was going on. Actually I was lividly gazing at the screen when I realised that they'd made Lieutenant Green a WOMAN. He isn't a woman, he's a very effeminate man, ticking the token button for both blacks and homosexuals. And he had a cool chair that went back and forth so they didn't have to do any walking animation. Anyway, in all the puppet (read: good) episodes, it was very simple. The Mysterons had a plan to blow some shit up. We know this, because they tell Spectrum. The Mysterons kill somebody, clone them, then use them to carry out their dastardly plans. Captain Scarlet then saves the day and gets blown up BUT HE'S INDESTRUCTIBLE so he doesn't get hurt. Simple, and it has a good message for kids: don't worry about danger, you might be invincible, meaning you can get shot, blown up, thrown out of a plane and badly operated on and NOTHING WILL HAPPEN.
Puppet Scarlet was like one of the least PC things ever. I remember one episode when Scarlet got pissed off, then shot a woman and threw her off a dam. Then he smoked a cigar and burnt down an orphanage, singing 'I'm a burnin' the bastards' to the tune of 'hello Dolly'. Well that probably didn't happen, but still that's the hard sorta think that Scarlet might have done. The woman falling off the dam might have been a Mysteron, I can't remember, but there was a cool bit when you see her falling all the way down, screaming and bouncing off the front of the dam. Take that, you fuckin puppet. That was a COOL falling death.

That reminds me. Andy's death in Eastenders last night was actually the lamest think I have ever seen. Guy pushes Andy. Cut to a shot of a man at the top of an overpass, wobbling. Cut back to the guy. Very very very quiet scream 'argh' that sounds like Andy's cut his chin shaving. Cut back to guy. Sound effects of cars braking. That was it.
TERRIBLE. I hate you all.

Oh yeah, and the explosions were COOL in the original Cappy S. You really felt that those toy cars were EXPLODING with force. Those women and children were really burning. What do we have in the new one? Ooh, a bit of crackling as the russians die. You cunts.

Wow, I sound like a nerd. But how can you be a Captain Scarlet nerd? Fuck you, I like it. In fact, I'm watching it right now. Scarlet is repeatedly ramming a plane with his car. Haha, the car won. Take that, you fuckin' plane. Oh no, Scarlet crashed into a building. Fuckit, I don't care. He's indestructable. Haha, the Mysterons won this one. That twat died. Losers. I love this show.

Yeah. So in conclusion: the new Captain Scarlet sucks. The old puppet could kick his arse any day of the week.

Honorary zombie killer dude: Captain Scarlet... duh.

The Wisdom of Mother...

"I know it's because you love her [my little sister] and if anything bad happened to her you would immediately leap in and help her, but could you please stop calling her names, hitting her and being horrible to her?"

Ah, deary me.

Went rowing today. Very uneventful, except for me using the grease from the slide to draw smily faces on my knees, then flexing my legs to make them talk to each other. Hee hee hee. Yeah.

I promise that I will blog properly later on.

Beat zombies to death with a table-leg.

My Review of Assault on Precinct 13:

Well, not so much a review, more a series of disjointed sentences, pissed out of my brain. But anyway.
This film is a remake of the John Carpenter original, which will piss off all the geeky fanboy dipshits out there. OOh, it's a butchering of Carpenter's genius source material? Well, I have two points for you:

a: The original was a rip-off of 'Rio Bravo' - a nice film reference. I RULE.
b: The original was called 'Assault on Precinct 13', yet it was set in precinct 8 or 9. So yeah, fuckin GENIUS source material there, you morons.

Yeah, so this film is about this guy who's name I can't remember, because he was a bit forgettable. And some shit happened and his fit assistant got killed. And so did his friend, I think. I don't know, but then he's all pissed off. Then some other shit happens and Morphius from the Matrix ends up being locked in his jail cell, which is CONVENIENTLY in an abandoned police station. Then this team of policemen come to kick some arse and kill them all, so they break out the guns and kill everyone.

That was, basically, it. Why they didn't just send Morphius out to use his Matrix Stylee skillz to blow the swat guys away, I'll never know. And how come the swat guys didn't JUST USE NERVE GAS?
OR GRENADES? You threw these fucking LIGHT grenades in. OOh, fancy pants, a bit white flash. Yeah, well done, now the defenders have a slight headache. You're a bunch of swat guys and you got beaten to death by a wuss with a baseball bat! A BASEBALL BAT! What next? The entire SAS being taken down by an arthritic woman with a pillow?
And how come, amongst all the weapons in the station, they ended up using an antique tommy gun? And how come there was so much ammo?
And how come they had the world's most terrible snipers in the world? They couldn't hit a slow, overweight ugly american women with DDDD boobies on a wheelchair. Gimps.

Oh dear. I just RIPPED that film to shreds. Anyway, here are the cool bits in this film:
A guy punching a dog repeatedly,
A guy getting roasted with some alcohol bottles,
Somebody getting baseball batted,
Somebody getting samurai sworded,
Tommy gunnage,
A woman getting shot,
An old man getting blown up,
The final shot of the city. Which was cool.

Overall, this film was actually quite cool. Yeah. Ratatatataa.

Um.

Kill zombies with: Tommy gun.

I'll get the HANGER and a little piece of gum and a-hunting we will go!

Annoying me
Unfolding and using to poke things
Making Blue Peter models out of ... well not any more, mostly due to the next point ...
Poking out one's eye...
Aborting babies
Using as pretend bow and arrows
Getting stuck in things
Being stepped on by me and making holes in my feet...

What do these things have in common? Yes, you're right, they are all verbs performed by COAT HANGERS.
I hate coat hangers with a goddamn vengeance. I mean, who the hell thought up wire coat hangers? Something so bloody useless could ONLY be thought up by a woman. They're the only ones with the mental skills to come up with that sort of interlectual abortion. I bet it was the same woman who thought up Chemistry, on her long white bears. I bet this one bitch just rode through history on her bears, inventing the shit things in life.

COATHANGERS. ARGH. WHY? I don't get it. Everyone knows the natural state for clothing is to be placed in a neat pile in the corner of the room. It's only women and homosexuals who think that it should be in a cupboard. The women, because they have to have something to do when they're not doing their nails and giggling inanely, and the homosexuals, because then they have some company.

*Why am I so sexist? I mostly like women and homosexuals. I like my mother - woman. I like Richard - possible homosexual. I even like Cassie, who is a perfect mixture between the two*

Clothes: good. Well, not good. I have the fasion sense of a 90 year old yorkshire farmer in the 1980's, but clothes are, generally, good. They keep us men warm from the -50 degree temperatures out in the wilderness while we're killing dinner and blowing up things, and keep the woman partially naked. I mean, if the women were fully naked, it would take away most of the allure, really. Then they'd just be naked woman cooking, cleaning, and mending our socks. And that's just UNSANITARY.

Um. Slightly off topic there. Where was I? Ah yes.

Clothes: good. I'm quite proud of my fleece. It is bigger than THE MOON.
Coat hangers: bad. Even the name is a lie. Coats have little hooks in the neck for you to hang them onto coat-racks on the wall. Coat hangers are for like, trousers, and, uh, ties. TIES? YOU CAN JUST STAPLE THEM TO THE WALL. Why don't they just put hooks in all clothes and just make huge coat racks instead of hangers. This would be simpler for many reasons:

1: There are no bits of metal to deal with.
2: It's all fixed to the wall.
3: It's not coat hangers.

Just to prove to you how much I hate coat hangers, I am now going to fetch something from my cupboard and demonstrate how hard it is.

a: Walk to cupboard.
b: Open it.
c: Scream girlishly as a hanger falls out onto my foot.
d: Survey the bar, which has about 9 empty hangers on it. Why are there so many hangers? Nobody know. Where the testicles did they come from? Nobody knows. Its like one of the great unsolved mysteries, to go with the Marie Celeste, The identity of V (serious geek joke there) and Steve's sex.
e: Pull a shirt from the rack. Shirt does not want to come. Pull harder.
f: Hanger comes out of shirt with a ripping sound and flies off into the cupboard.
g: Bend down to pick up hanger.
h: Hit head on other hangers. Scream girlishly again.
i: More hangers fall down.
j: Throw hangers into the cupboard.
k: Slam cupboard door. Door doesn't slam properly, due to coat hangers in the way.
j: Angrily open cupboard door. Hangers SOME how manage to get caught in the carpet and leap up. Hit me in my delicate face.
k: Growl, pick up hanger to put back on the rack, but it has somehow managed to get itself stuck on my bag.
j: FINALLY close the door. Coat hangers are pointing under the door.
k: Return to blogging this.
q: Stop and talk to mother for a few minutes.
8: Return to chair. THERE IS A COAT HANGER ON MY DESK NEXT TO THE KEYBOARD. I SWEAR IT WASN'T THERE BEFORE.

I think I'm cracking up. I may actually have a pathological hate of coat hangers. Does this make me some sort of freak?
Hell, you're the people who just spent five minutes reading a blow by blow account of me getting a fleece out of my cupboard.

Begins with S and ends with o, yeah, fuck you.

Toodles.

Kill zombies with none other than coat hangers.

Right, you twats...

Nobody ever comments on my blog any more. Where are all the anonymous people idolising me as a God?
There has to be loads.
I mean, I do get some comments. But they are usually in one of the following two categories:

a: Utter drivel.
b: Posted by Fati.

Actually, we could probably merge those two together:

c: Utter drivel posted by Fati.

So yeah. Comment, you anonymous perverts. We all know you're reading my blog, mastubating madly whenever I type 'tits'. Well, here you go: Tits, boobies, airbags, trampolines, BREASTS, mammary glands, bosoms, bust, chest, front, gland, mammilla, nipple, teat, thorax, udder... um... yeah.

In fact, the first guy who I don't know who posts on this thing wins a prize! It will be shiny, impresive, and non-existent.
*Note: I said GUY, as we all know that most women can't use computers well. Mostly, they hit the keys and giggle at the pretty colours that pop up. Oooh, look, PINK TEXT. Tee hee hee. Now lets go onto periodpainwhiningcunts.com. MAN I'M OFFENSIVE TO WOMEN.*

*Except Cassie and Fati. You two don't count as women. Well, Fati does, but she's cool.*

Where was I? Oh yeah. Craving attention from strangers on the internet. Well, at least I can't sink any lower. I actually have hit the moral rock bottom.

Pass me that pneumatic drill.

Kill zombies... NO... FEED zombies... with anyone who does not comment. Yarr.

Hamlet's mother, she's the queen / Buys it in the final scene / Drinks a glass of funky wine / Now she's Satan's VALENTINE!

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

Guys. I got invited to Sharon TATE's house. Now you can come, but you gotta promise not to embarrass me.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY
You cunts.
I don't even get a single card. WANKERS. Still, hey hey hey. I'll just nudge.

Dude.
Well, went into Londonia with Cassinda and Miss Abibibidiibidbidiibidbidibidibidibdibidibididbidibisdisdfklasdflkjasd,nm today. The idea was to visit many galleries and see much artwork and eventually formulate my idea for my GCSE art piece. So far, my idea: Snails. Not a joke. Yeah.
Anyway. Fuckit, here's the order it happened:

1: Thomas arrives in Waterloo.
2: Thomas laughs at Cazzaman's hair.
3: Thomas is still laughing.
4: Fatiiiii shows up. There is much praising of her jeans.
5: We slowly walk to the Tate Modern, taking the world's most RANDOM route. Thomas makes a hilarious piece of refential humour: "The Tate Modern? TAT Modern, more like!" Yeah. Sometimes I KILL MYSELF.
6: We walk into the turbine hall. Thomas remembers the RANDOM piece of installation art with a bunch of SCREAMING microphones telling me to 'work work work work work' and other such bullshit. Headached up to his skull, Thomas leads the other two in a nice big circle. Finally, we get into the gallery.
7: We wander around the gallery.
8: We see our first installation; a film of two men sitting down next to a tree. The men are doing nothing. We watch, slack jawed, for three minutes, before realising that NOTHING IS HAPPENING.
9: More wandering of galleries. We see our SECOND installation: A building in Mexico that slowly goes red. Despite the beeping sound and our cries of excitement, the building doesn't explode at the end. Boo, hiss.
10: The children are bored. We wander outside.
11: Thomas produces a map. Cazzaboy and Fatinda mock him. Thomas puts the map away.
12: Cassaboy and Fatinda get lost.
13: Thomas produces his map and the day is saved. Lalala.
14: Um, some more shit happens. We end up in Wagamamas.
15: Thomas ends up ordering like the world's spiciest soup. KERAZY. Its so spicy, he is totally unable to finish. Disapointing.
16: We wander towards the natrual history museum. Thomas tells the story of his previous experiences with the museum: The last people he went in with spent less than five minutes in there, then went shopping. SHOPPING. THEY DISCUSSED FLIP FLOPS FOR 20 FUCKING MINUTES. ARGH.
17: Some scottish cunt at the museum entrance searces my bag. Cos yeah, blonde teenager with two girls; I SURE LOOK LIKE AN ISLAMIC SUICIDE TERRORIST. Dipshit.
18: We get lost. Thomas searches for snails, Fatitititiitititi looks for monkeyyyyyys.
19: We wander through the earth science section. I read each of the headings out loud in a booming voice, realising that they all sound like:

a: Fighting films
b: Porn films
c: Pizza toppings

20: We re-emerge, having not seen ANY monkeys OR snails.
21: We walk the wrong way through the monkey section. See no monkeys. To make up for this, we walk through this section about four times. Haha, monkeeeeeeeeeys.
22: We sit on a bench outside for a bit.
23: We go to the Science Museum. Dude, how COOL are we?
24: We all stand, looking up, entranced, drooling slightly, at an AMAZING sparkly wheel of death.
25: While Cazoid gets a drink, we sit and look at a slightly less impressive plastic horse. Plastic? Spastic more like. Mwaha.
26: More wandering of the museum. Finally, we think, fuckit, time to go to Covent Garden.
27: On the tube there is some SCARY mofo with a rotting foot. He is obviously in extreme pain. But his foot had some HUGE RUNNING SORE. Not nice.
28: We buy Duckface a valentines card. After much laughing at the 'so sorry for you losing a child' (WE ARE EVIL) and searching for 'so sorry about the bowel cancer', we finally settle on a nice 'good luck in your new job'. We eat chips and laugh hysterically at the incredibly lame Ronald McDonald.
29: We return to Waterloo. There is singing of BeeGees. Oh yeah, we also have a competion over the day as to who can trip over the most amount of stairs. Final count:

Fattty-poo: 2
Cassindar: 3
Toemouse: 5

Dear me, we are retards.

30: Fati disappears. Cassindararararlasdjf;lasjdfl;kajsdfl;kjasdl;fk and me sit on a train, destroying an envelope.
31: We go to Kris's, then Emmas. I eat a lot of breadsticks. Some other stuff happens. We mock Paul's hilarious Valentine's NOVEL to Emma.
32: Everyone ends up... ugh, doing nasty stuff to each other. YOU SICK FUCKS. AND MIKE, PAUL WROTE HER A LETTER. WHAT DID YOU DO? YOU SICKEN ME. You're gonna break his sweet little american heart. Me and Caddyshack are the voice of reason.
33: Grin.
34: This isn't really a good number to end it on? Well, I don't care, fuck you.

I just realised. We did a SHIT amount of museuming today. But on the other hand, we still acted like a bunch of fuckin' losers. Ho hum de dum de do.

Yeah, screw you. Wink.

Zombie Killer: A hammer, as wielded by that nasty Punch in the freaky Punch and Judy video.

My favorite hat has been ruined! And, oh yeah, Townsville's under attack by an evil demented ZOMBIE magician.

Some more Tom Thinks Teacup art, this time from my partner in crime (literally), Fati Abididiaididididiiidaifisdiaisdsiiididiasdjkfmnbvnmnbvvnmcvgbnmmsadnfsdkhvgalsdfasdjflasdjfawsdflkjasdjfsdkajfasd diidididaiidivciaiviaiididiaiia. (Note: this may not be her actual name)



Hahahhahahahaha.
Oh dear. All of Fati's pictures feature the following:
a: Usually, death or destruction.
b: That thing that looks like a bear. It is actually a monkey. Just a kinda odd one.
c: Characters with HUGE manaical grins. And no noses. Although, I hear she may be adding noses to get away from Bang on the Door. We here at Tom Thinks Teacup fucking HATE Bang on the Door. Is it Bang? Or is it Knock? And why do I care? Fuck 'em.
d: Usually, a yellow haired character who is meant to be me. MY HAIR IS NOT YELLOW. Still. Usually, I'm doing something heroic, like saving a boy from the world's most unthreatening octopus. Although, I have also been seen to push a boy into the sea at sword point, and also watch happily as various people are beaten/maimed.

Anyway, yeah. I'm going to see Assault on Precinct 13 later on, and I might do a movie review.

The question is: Will it be as ass kicking as Evil Dead 2?

We here at Chainsaw Zombie say: No, of course not, you fucking retards. Nothing is that ass-kicking! Not even The Rock! Ash isn't some pussy who's doing it for his girlfriend! Ash is so manly, he doesn't even have a girlfriend! Well, he does, but he decapitates her with a spade in the first ten minutes. He's doing it 'cos he's a man, and he's going to kick that cabin's ass. And boy, does he ever. Yeah.
I HAVE TO GET THOSE FILMS ON DVD. NOW.

Oh yes, and Fati would like me to say that her art made me gasp like I have never gasped before in my life.
In fact, I gasped so hard I hyperventilated, passed out and hit my head on the imitation balsawood fireplace (actually made of marble) carved into the shape of Cher and was unconscious for three hours. I lost 37% of my brain!

This, of course, didn't happen.

Kill zombies with: An axe and that random grey pointy thing sticking our of our pissed off zombie's head.

He is now accepting callers, he is calling you DUDE!

I saw Evil Dead 2 last night.

Two words: Fucking hell.

This film is actally more genius than Einstein, mixed with Neuton, with a nice bit of Socrates thrown in for good mesure. Neutsteincrates, if you will. I was pretty much pissing myself laughing for the entire time. It's a horror, but damn is it funny. In a good way. How does it manage this? By taking everything to ridiculous levels.

A girl getting killed by a steadicam shot? Funny.
The girl returning to life and attempting to kill her boyfriend? Funny.
The boyfriend taking off her head with a shovel? Funny.
The boyfriend deciding to bury her, moaning madly? Funny.
The girl returning to life, dancing around naked and throwing her head around? Funny.
The girls decapitated head flying into the cabin and biting the boyfriend's hand? Funny.
The boyfriend running around screaming before shoving the head into a vice? Funny.
The girlfriend's headless body running into the cabin, wielding a chainsaw? Damn funny.

Ah man, I'm laughing at the memory. And it goes on from there. But now I must bring up the boyfriend. Ash.

I'm sorry, Gilly, but we now have new most manly man around. I mean, you may be black, but do you have a giant chin and a chainsaw for a hand? Sorry, but no. Do you run around, alternately screaming, crying, making wisearse comments and killing things? Sorry, but no. Are you anywhere near as damn cool as Ash? Sorry, but nobody is.
ASH IS SO COOL. The funny thing is that he's always just halfway between going crazy and kickin' some zombie arse, and crying in the corner. But don't worry, he isn't some pussy boy. Would a pussy boy chainsaw off his own hand, before healing the wound with a teatowel and some gaffa tape? Hell no. Would a pussy - boy have the strength to take off his OWN GIRLFRIEND'S head with a spade? Hell no. Would a pussy boy axe several people to death? Hell, no.

And finally, this film has the FUCKING COOLEST suiting up scene ever known to man.
The Batman suiting up scene? Not bad.
The Terminator suiting up scene? Quite cool.
The Shaun of the Dead suiting up scenes? Damn cool.
The Evil Dead 2 suiting up scene? Cooler than a fuckin... cucumber. In deep freeze. Basically, it involves his stump of an arm, his chainsaw, and a shotgun. Man, I was unable to breathe, I was laughing so goddamn hard. In fact, I was unable to laugh. I was just gazing slackjawed at the screen. Man. I HAVE TO GET THESE FILMS ON DVD.

Anyway, fuck you, I'm off to make a picture of Ash as my new banner.

Kill zombies with: Ash. Just Ash. He'll get the job done.

And now, for a demonstration of how much I rule:

(Image from the Tom Thinks Teacup collection, Property of Me and Fati)

Hahahhahahahha.
Don't ask.
Isn't that just the happiest toaster you ever did see?
I'm such an artist.

Ah, man.

Slice em zombies good with that huge meat cleaver/sword thing wielded by the sibling in the nice hat.

Phew, panic averted...

I have been forgiven.
Well, actually, that's not true. Because to say that I was 'forgiven' is to imply that I have some sort of fault. And we all known that I'm a perfect sculpture of manly perfectness.
I have no errors.
Therefore, I can never be at fault.

Still, its good to be forgiven for my many faults.
Uh, yeah.

Zombie Weapon: As I just saw Shaun of the Dead again (9th time!), I'm gonna have to say cricket bat and spade, wielded by a kickass cool electronics store shop assistant and his fat stoner buddy.

Argh, I'm such a dipshit...

*Bangs head on keyboard*
Sorry.
Ok, basically at Oggs last night I managed to act like a total moron. So, uh, sorry Cassie. I actually am.
I pulled a 'Steve' (not literally... ugh), meaning I walked out of the house without telling anybody AGAIN.
WHY AM I SUCH A DIPSHIT?
Ararghhhhhhhhhhaaaarghahgarararaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.
Now the only person who I have ever truly loved is mad at me. I'M SORRY MIKE.
Cassie, too.

Shit, I have some serious crawling to do to get back into her good books.

Just feed me to the zombies, I'm too much of a retard to live.

ESCAPE to what, Honey? I mean, my father is Zo-Zo, the three headed guard dog at the gate to hell.

Oh, dear.

Well, I have bad news. And worse news.

Bad news: The Mug Heist is over, after my mother found them and made me take them downstairs. Damn you, Kahn! Yeah, so I got up to 8, which, when I think about it, SUCKS.



And the worse news? My snail has escaped.

I mean, for fucks sake. It's a snail! Its not bloody Steve McQueen. And how the fuck did it get outta the jam jar? This is how I see it:



Snail sets up a series of underground contacts with the other insect denzians of my bedroom.

Snail starts to dig out. Stops when he realises that the glass is too hard to dig. Also, it has no shover. Or opposable limbs.

Snail bribes jam-jar guard, a gruff mailman with a heart of gold called Lenny, with a promise of free mucus and all the slime he can drink. Lenny finally agrees and busts snail out of the jar using an expensive and exciting explosions.

Despite the fact that it can walk on walls, snail climbs up edge of jar with a rope.

Snail motorbikes off.

OH SHIT, the JAM-JARDIANS (guardians of the jam jar... see what I did there?) are on its trail! Five of the meanest motherfuckkas you ever did see, riding bikes and armed to the teeth with the little sachets of salt you get on airplanes.

Snail sees this. 'SHIT' he thinks.

Snail swerves and leaps off the bike, which overturns and crashes into the first jam-jardian. He is thrown off, flies 6 inches and crashes into a biology textbook which explodes, taking him with it in a spray of juice and shell fragments. The snail surveys the wreckage for a second, then notices the other four. 'BOLLOCKS' he thinks, ducking a spray of salt from Jardian no.2. Then the snail notices the teaspoon next to him. Picking it up in his manly snail-arms, he catches the next spray of salt and hurls it back, over the two Jardians follow him. As their faces start to melt, the first drives his bike off the desk to EXLODE in an impressive display of pyrotechnics below. The other hits the edge of the cutting mat and spats against an art book, which slowly slams shut, crushing him.

Only two remain. Our brave snail hero climbs onto the bike of the crushed jardian and picks up a spare cocktain pin. Something exciting happens and he kills both of the other two, as I can't be bothered to continue this story.

He then rides off into the sunset.



Yeah, that's now it happened.



Or, I, uh, left the jar open.



Shit man, I can't even take responsibility for a SNAIL in a JAR. Its a good job the Germans didn't put me in charge of Auchwitz. Or a bad job. I don't know. The Jews would have escaped though, and Hitler woulda looked a RIGHT plonker.



Yeah.



Zombie Killer: A really HUGE nail

Yo, both of y'all. That is a "FRAGRANCE of Love" scented candle, bitch. Damn!

I have managed to accidentally refresh this page three times already while writing this, so I'm a little bored of typing this sentence. Still, it HAS to be said:



NO MATTER HOW MANLY AND COOL THE ADVERTISING MAN SAYS IT IS, A 'FRAGRANCE' IS JUST A GIRLY GIRL PERFUME, AND, THEREFORE, SHOULD UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES, BE WORN BY A MAN.



I mean, seriously. How much a dipshit buys male perfume? I mean, YOU FAGGOT. Only women and homosexuals wear perfume... it's not a fragrance. The advertising men use the word 'fragrance', because 'perfume' is reminiscent of old women spraying chemicals over their wrinkled, dying skin, to disguise the fact that slowly they are dying, their flesh turning into putrid mud and their blood clotting in their veins. Whereas 'fragrance' is happily reminiscent of fresh fields, leaping lambs, and being young and alive.

THEY BOTH MEAN THE SAME THINGS. YOU ARE SPRAYING CHEMICALS ON YOURSELF TO DISGUISE YOUR STENCH. I can understand women doing this, 'cos generally women smell of out of date makeup, fish, and tacky period blood (man, I'm offensive today) but MEN? I mean, wear some deodorant. You don't need to smell of a beautiful infusion of male spices and fragrances to create a whole new pile of bullshit you.



AND THE ADVERTS. Arhghhahhahrharhrahralsdkjflaskdjf;lasdhvl;nbhjkminujvbnmknmnbcgvbmnmhu8nuknj348979[ 30waher`fu9[824[90fv'sdiohg4uaw]09ug]0we498]t0a394we]t0egadfbj;zdkhfgbpaue

*That was me rolling my face about on the computer keyboard madly.*



The first guy who makes a cool perfume advert, well, I won't kiss, but I'll... I'll wear the perfume. Perfume adverts are, without an exception, the most lame and un-sexy things KNOWN TO MAN. I mean, they even made a kickass SAUSAGES advert (with the dog... hahaha...). They made WALL'S SAUSAGES look sexy... WHY CAN'T THEY DO IT WITH PERFUME?



Fuckit. Perfume ads, without exception, fall into one of three categories:



1: Retarded

Stupid pseudo-interlectual bullshit. They go along the lines of a series of random images of a man and a woman running around each other in a cathedral or a market or a cityscape or something, being happy and carefree. And then theres this really annoying whispered voiceover, that goes along the lines of: "Run... talk.... kiss... moments of passion... donkey... alive.... Whisper... The new fragrance from Yves Saint Dolores Clairborne King Smith Renoir Penishead Gabbana.

These adverts are even more retarded than that 'vanish' advert with Barry Scott. Who the FUCK is Barry Scott? Are we supposed to recognise him or something? I mean, he's not even on IMDB.com. He's not even a Z list celebrity! What a gimp.



2: Homo-Erotic

Naked men running about, doing manly things to prove how manly they are by wearing pussy perfume. Oh yeah, we're naked and we're covered in muscles and WE WEAR PERFUME, so it has to be good. Of course, the morons at advertising don't realise that this makes the perfume seem even gayer. What self-respecting manly man would ever go about naked? None of us do. We're too busy looking kickass in our huge clompy hobnailed boots and, uh, fur coats.



A prime example is that one (tastefully... not) done in black and white, where this naked guy gets up and wanders around his appartment. This guy sleeps in the nude... cunt... and he has a wall full of trophys. This proves that he's good at football and is so not a poof. Actually, this may have been an advert for coffee, but it's so shamefully GAY it deserves to be riteously mocked.Then he's sitting in his chair, starkers (hopefully leaving skidmarks all over the place), when the door opens and he looks up, cheekily. Oh, tee hee hee, what a michevous scamp he is!

Here's the list of people who I'd like to see enter the door:



1: The owner of the appartment, a 6'5 foot angry black guy with a baseball bat.

2: Somebody with:

...a: A nailgun

...b: An itchy trigger finger

3: Snakes. Lots of snakes.

4: A tabloid newspaper journalist.

5: The Village People, with some hefty bouncers to hold him down for them.

6: A fireball.

7: The boulder from the start sequence of Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark

8: Like, a jumping spider.

9: A clumsy mousetrap salesman

10: The Wall's Sausages Advert Dog.



Dude, I killed him.



3: The 'Perfume is manly, really it is' adverts

At least the advertisers have realised that perfume is womanly and have made an attempt to disguise this fact. Failure, dipshit. Saying 'your fragrance, your rules' is not a good way. If you were so amazing, rebellious and breakin' down da rulez, would you really be wearing perfume? Uh, no, 'cos you'd be spending all your money on drugs, spray paint and jam jars.

And really. Is the best way you can think of to make your model look rebellious really to make him drive a bus around, get his photos taken in a photobooth and fall on the floor laughing a lot? Because you read my mind. If somebody asked me what the most rebellious thing I could have thought of was, I'd have said 'driving a bus' too. Dumb-dumb.

I really want to grab that guy and shake him until his perfectly manicured teeth crack and his eyeballs fall out.

YOU'RE NOT REBELLIOUS, DIPSHIT, YOU'RE AN ADVERTISING CHARACTER... AND YOUR ADVERTISING FUCKING PERFUME.

Christ, I hate everyone.



Anyway, here's my idea for a perfume advert. I like it; it's simple, effective, and it gets the message across.



Black Screen.

The words 'PERFUME... BECAUSE YOU'RE A DIPSHIT' pop up.

Black screen.

End of advert.



I rule.



Zombie Killa: Perfume, then match.

And I'm backing it up with this gun... that was LENT from the National Rifle Association!

So what are you giving up for Lent?

Well, after long and hard thought on the subject, I decided to give up the following:



Eating pepper

Waxing my legs

Collecting Minature Teapots from magazines

Stapling my penis

Giving money to charity

Drinking deoderant

Making complicated camera-apparatus out of wax, straw and a special plastic compound called Homonenium

Designing playlists for my warhammer armies, before naming each soldier individually and giving him a backstory

Helping the homeless by making soup and OK CAN I STOP THIS?



Ok, I was JOKING. I would never do any of those pointless, POINTLESS things. Here's the REAL list of things I'm going to give up for lent:











Oh wait, I didn't write anything. Why? I'm not giving anything up for lent, so, uh, fuck you.

Hahaha, I just totally RINSED the contents of everyone else's blog.



I spent my history lesson yesterday writing a list of words I like saying. Here you go: Cunt, Dickhead, Tosh, Dumbass, Jew, Caustic, Dipshit, Loser, Yoo-hoo, Moron, Twat, Lugubrious, Monkey, Ahoy, Chimp, Prat, Twit, Spacker, Tit, Zombie, Titty, Pish, PICKLE, Aharr, Booby, Spiffing, Toodles, Kong, Bong, Fuckit, Damn, Shoo-bee-doo da da, Golly, Crap, Spaz, Boatie, Gimp, Matey.



There are others, but I forgot 'em. These are not exclusively swear words, just ones I love saying. So no offense to the jews, dickheads or cunts out there. I love you all.



La, la, la, la, butcher-knife the zombies to death!

Good News, everyone! I've taught the toaster to love!

Nah, just kidding. but today I passed an important threshold in every young man's life.

Its what we all go through at one point or another.

It was hard, and I never thought it would happen, but yes, I've managed it.

I just feel so HAPPY now, like I can be socially accepted. Actually, I'm one of the first ones in my class to do it.

Yep, I have now listened to Debaser 100 times.

I feel that we need a celebrational debaser. Ready?



DEBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASER!



Yeah man. You sick fucks, you thought it was something dodgy, right? Sex, I'll bet.

YOU SICKEN ME.

Actually, I think sex is hilarious. Especially sex ed classes. We had a catch-up in Biology today about female contraception. And can I just say... WOW. You women stick some seriously fucked up shit up there. Wires, bits of plastic, balloons, little spikey fabric things... shit man. T'was all very confusing.

Then a load of plastic penii were set out, possibly for the purpose of making me feel inadequate. Apparently we were s'posed to put condoms on them with our eyes closed. ITS NOT A GAME, MISS. Shit on a stick. Although, condoms do make IMPRESSIVE weapons, for the reason that people are always disgusted when one is thrown into their mouths. Except Marios, who spent much of the lesson blowing into his.



*HMMM*



Yeah. So that was that.

And on the subject of sex.

I HAVE NO INTEREST IN ANY OF THE FOLLOWING:



Your love life

What you think and so and so girl

What you did last Saturday with so and so girl

The fact that you're texting so and so girl

The fact that you love so and so girl



This goes about x100000000 for MSN Screen names. Actually, MSN Screennames are the most retarded thing known to man.

I DON'T CARE. STOP TELING ME ABOUT IT.



Thanks *grin*

Actually, fuck you.



In honour of Shrove Tuesday, todays implement: Frying Pan

Why is it not a good idea to knife-juggle while bellringing?

Yeah, it's another one of these, as I cant be bothered to blog properly...



Bertiti Naseepetalon, Grand master of Mexico city: Because the bells could give you a headache and then they would be drunk from all of their drinkingness and would't be able to dance correctly with the knifes, hence they woudl leave all upset. And then they wouldnt make bifes. A bife is a child of a bell and a knife by the way.



Everyone's favourite midget (Paul): The person might never know you're at the door... coz either you die, or you're in a zen like state of concentration so you dont realise you haven't rung the bell.



Bibby: You might get out of time with the rest of the group.



Lovely, lovely, lovely Fati: Well, because if you juggle the knives while taking a break from the bell ringing, and the knife hits the inside of the bell, it's not only going to make a very loud unpleasant noise, but it would also make the knife come down sharp side first straight in between your eyes. This is because you looked up to see where the knife went when it made the very loud unpleasant noise inside the bell.



Jack: You'll cut the rope and the bell will fall and go down your throat, and carry on to the penis, where it will make an extra big bellend.



Marios the pervert: I LIKE MEN! (only kidding. Here was his actual one: Well it depends what kind of bell you're tugging on, 'coz a knife to the bell-end could be kinda painful)



Ogg: Shit... man I gotta come up with some amazingly clever crap here or else I'll seem unimaginitive so...

Yeah, he put something insulting to Christians that wasn't THAT offensive or imaginitive, then went back to talking to his hand.



Lucia, the titless wonder: NB: Her typing is SO BAD, there's no point in my even trying to decipher it. So, yeah. Sorry, everyone: it is not a good idea to juggle knives while bellringign, cz if ur knife cuts a bell pull, the bell will come clangign down, and not only will this probably kill sum1, it will disturb the peace and serentiy of chruch.



Yeah, great. Here's my idea.







Doesn't that rule? It does. Not as much as me. But I rule more. Wicked. Doesn't the snail kick arse? I know.



Zombie killer: A big bell from above

Am I to understand that you have inserted your father's skull in that ball for BOWLING?

Why does everyone like bowling so much?



Heres bowling broken down into steps:



1: You show up and try to find a parking stop in a car-park full of PAY AND DISPLAY signs and pikeys.

2: You enter the bowling alley. Now its usually full of obnoxious music (usually the most bollocks piece of chart shit they can find). This is also mixed in with:



The sound of the games machines. This means explosions, toots, even more terrible music from the dance machine, and random fanfares going off every three seconds from the slot machines.

An almost entless amount of screams, cries, and thwacking sounds from the table football/snooker table/bar/s&m room/air hockey table.

Pikeys. Why are bowling alleys, like, a magnet for pikeys. Are they just walking along when... BLAM, they get hit by a thought. "I KNOW, LETS GO TO THE BOWLING ALLEY AND STAND AROUND LOOKING EXCITED AT ALL THE FLASHING LIGHTS!"

Flashing lights. Ooh, cos neon going off everywhere is really making the place look more classy. The rest of the alley is in darkness, so a perfect place to get your wallet jacked. Ooh, look at me, I said 'jacked'. Using a piece of urban lingo. I feel so trendy, hip, and 'in there'.

The smell of the snack bar, mixed with a nice heavy bit of SWEAT and chemicals.

The hot melting feeling of being in a dark room, underground with a bunch of overexcited ten year olds. Woo.



3: Queue then pay £15 for the pleasure of throwing a piece of... what the hell are bowling balls made of anyway? ... marble at some wooden things. Double woo.

4: Give away your shoes, so you can't flee the building when you realise you are wasting precious nanoseconds. I REPEAT: YOU GIVE AWAY YOUR SHOES AND PUT ON ONES POSSIBLY WORN BY SOMEONE WITH CONTAGEOUS TOENAIL WORM-ROT LEPROSY. Is this good? No. But of course, they spray them with something beforehand. Whoopedy fucking do.

5: Wait for your lane to become active. Then mistype your name on the incredibly confusing set-up pad thing and accidentally turn off the bumpers. Who the fuck has the bumpers turned off? The ball just falls into the gutter the entire time. Who gives a shit if you don't look professional with the bumpers up? ITS BOWLING.

6: Pick up the ball, which is greasy and too heavy. Throw it at the pins. Look depressed as you knock over four. Repeat, and knock over another three.

7: Sit down and watch everyone else throw their balls around. If you're with a group of teenage boys, there might be some of the following HILARIOUS incidents:



A 'bowl the ball as fast as you can' competition.

A 'bowl the ball as slow as you can' competition.

A 'bowl the ball as crazily as you can' competition.

A 'throw the ball from the other side of the room' competition.

A 'don't throw the ball down the alley at all' competition. By the way, if anybody happens to go into the Rotunda in Kingston for bowling, and you look at the columns next to the alleys, and you see that one of them has a ball shaped dent in it... it wasn't us.



8: At some point, the ball movey thing might jam. Then you stand there lookin confused for a bit until the ball technician comes and pokes it with his foot. Well done, there.

9: You finish, and emerge out into the rain with greasy hands, greasy skin, covered in your own sweat to find out that some pikeys have vandalised your car and you've wasted two hours of your life.



Oh yeah, this reminds me of a film I made up when cycling home (No helmet, REBEL) from the hairdressers.



PIKEY KILLA

*I'm not crazy about the title*

Basically, there's this midget (it has to be a midget; midgets are cool. Perhaps they could get the guy who played Mini Me, or shave a chimpanzee or soemthing), and hes walking home when he gets attacked by a bunch of pikeys, cos he looks funny in his little pink catsuit. So then, in retaliation, he dresses up in a suit and travels the streets killing Chavs. Then the Chav High Queen, Bianca Charmaine Charity Britney Mercedes Beckham sends an army of burberry clad ninjas to hunt down and kill our brave hero, Pee-Wee Potter.

It goes on from there, but I can't be bothered.



Zombie crusher: bowling ball.

But he's not a bad guy, Mr. Davis. I MEAN like, he'd never burn a cross on your lawn.

I'm not quite sure when I've pushed something too far.



But fuckit.







Ok, Steven. I am done mocking you. You know I love you really. Well, more 'fear and am suspicious of' than 'love', but... NO I AM GOING TO STOP IT NOW.



SORRY, BABE.



Well, not babe.



SORRY, OGG'S BABE.



Screw this.



Scoop a zombie to death with a spoon.

Well, it's a bit disturbing to see the team's LOVE Doctor hit the ground and cry "Medic!"

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

Already I am ze - HICCUP! - pickled.

Fucking God.

I mean, most of his stuff is pretty ok.



The Earth? Fine.

Breasts? Good.

Light? Well, not bad.



But HICCUPS? I mean, why? Why God, why? Why did you think it was a good idea to make up hiccups. Gay hiccups. That sucks. So I was sitting there, hiccuping, when I had a thought.

PING... I know, I'm going to click on that button that says 'next blog' at the top of the page,' and see what the rest of the community has to offer.

Here's what I got:



About three pages in Spanish. And badly written Spanish. I can't figure out how they manage to to accents. This is what happens when I type 'n with squiggle on it,' : ñ. Odd.

A page in French with a picture of a fat topless lady on it *ugh*.

Two fancy ultra-htmled pages with HUGE pictures of Japanese Anime on them. Now, the amount of time and swearing it took me to figure out how to post ONE PICTURE at the top of it, arghhh. How do these people do it? Losers. In one of these, someone had posted their poems. POEMS? How much of a dipshit are you? Ooh, look at me with my rubbish poetry.



Blogs are for ranting and taking the piss out of people: FACT.

They are not for poetry. Shame on you.



Haha, a churchy blog for some jerkwater community. "We'll see how many people enjoy our blog, and see if we can include the rest of the community." Total posts: two. Total comments: ZERO. Take that, Jesus.

A blog about juvenile diseases. Great. Just what I felt like reading. Fucking hell... who the HELL looks up medical conditions on a blog? Pah.

For anybody who has come onto my blog for medical conditions here's my latest disease:



MORONITIS: For people who look up medical conditions on a blog. The only cure: Eating pebbles. Just keep eating them until you start bleeding. Then go and jump into a deep canal.



One in Kowean. Entitled 'journey of a blog', this is one of my more favourite posts: 不過,我還是作出了一個決定...就是增加內容為最優先事項! 其實這個決定不難理解的,因為貓網的內容真是太少了...怎能讓一個已經開站近五年的網頁還是只有空殼呢?而且以內容為本才是我想做到的貓網哦... P.S.且看能否在這個星期完成吧.... 注:這星期代表這七日內



Odd.

Finally, the funniest shit I have ever read. The only post read like this: I've started a blog because I'm bored and I really shout be beging to startmy novel. Oh well. I have a short intrest sapn for stuff like this on theinternet.

I mean, if you're going to be writing a novel, it'll help to have:

a: An attention span. An interest span doesnt exist. Neither does an interest sapn.

b: The ability to spell, dipshit.



Screw this. La di da di doo da da, wing tiddle winky la diddle da la.



Kill zombies wiv: Boxing gloves!

Never let it be said that your anal-retentive attention to detail never yielded positive RESULTS.

You behold a God.

Well, when I say 'behold' I mean, you're reading the blog of. Yeah.

Anyway, here are my results. Read em and weep:



Spanish

Exam: 85%, A

Term: A



English Lit

Exam 93: fucking percent, A*

Term: A* ... you should have read the report on me. Apparently my essays are 'stunningly mature', 'terrific,' and, 'brilliant'. Seriously, every other word was a compliment. I wonder what he'd do if he ever read any of the shit I post on this thing. I wrote an essay about my sodding SHREDDER (Which, by the way, is going rather well, thank you). Still, Mr S is a dude, in his racist way. Today we were in the computer room and I was just spinning madly around on my chair. My essay read:



'I am typing upside down lalallalallallalallalal this is fun isnt it andrey andrey is gay i should do some word.

I love cock i love cock

phippsy sucks

why am i not working?

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh'



Mr S sees this, nods, then corrects somebody else's essay. Man, I love being the class boffin at English.



Chemistry

Exam: 78%, A*

Term: A*

Physics:

Actually, fuck the sciences. I got A* in all the exams, and A* in all the classes except for Physics, which I got an A in. Do these teachers not actually look at me? I spent much of today's Chemistry lesson making off-colour remarks about 'suckback' and eating malt loaf. Mmm, malt loaf... food of the boaties. And suckback is a funny word, ok? I can't believe she didn't get it.



Art

Exam: 71/80, A

Term: A* ... A*? HAS SHE EVEN LOOKED IN MY SKETCHBOOK? I spent 8 pages doodling, then produced a rather bad painting of a huge man in a beret smashing up a city. For my most recent piece of GCSE genius, I'm doing snails. SNAILS. Fuck it that it has nothing to do with the subject. Mr Jeff is doing well, thank you. I recently moved him into a jam jar. I felt that the pickle one might have been bad for him.



History

Exam: 85%, A*

Term: A* AND THE BEST IN THE CLASS. So, uh, fuck you, iraqui boy.



French

Exam: A (This was AS level French, so A is the highest it goes. It's the Jonny Depp in Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas of AS level exam scores, if you will, for a nice film reference)

Term: A



AS Decision Maths

Exam: 69%



Pure Maths

Exam: 36%.... THIRTY SIX PERCENT. HOW MUCH DO I RULE? I am a total god. I suck so much at Maths. Mwahhahaha. But still, my overall maths result was B. B? How badly do I have to do to fail? I mean, for fucks sake. Next time, I'm not even showing up to the exam. I'll still probably get a C.

Term: A. I actually give up.



So there we have it. My results. I think you'll find more As and Stars than the Astrological Almighty Alcoholic's Anonymous Association's Annual Hollywood meeting, in Space.

Although, can I just make this point: I am not a boffin.

Only kidding. Stay back, before I melt you with my mind powers.



Zombie murderer: Corkscrew

Ah, Oliver.

Happy Birthday, dear.

See, I remembered.

I am too lazy to give you a eulogy.

WOAH, you say 'a eulogy' , not 'an eulogy'. Thats both crazy and uninteresting.

Anyway, you can have a discussion tomorrow, which IS your birthday.

But for now:







Hahha, I rule. The spelling is just for hilariousness.



UPDATED:

Well, Happy Birthday Babe. I hope this makes up for the total lack of a present. Its not gonna happen from this cheap whitey.

Me and Oliver first met roughly 35 years ago, back in 'Nam. I was his pilot, he was my wingman. Oh, what fun we had, incinerating Mike Li's family.

I remember one time, like it was yesterday. We'd been hit by a Jumping Charlie Suicide Splatter and our plane was going down. I was hit in the leg, slowly bleeding to death, ready to die. "Leave me!" I said to dear Ogg.

"Not today," he replied, in his way, before picking me up and carrying us both out of the chopper, SECONDS before it exploded. He then chewed off his own foot in order to carry us back to civilization, killing the Leader of the Viet-Kong (Known for being a giant monkey with a penchant for climbing up the Empire State Building) with one attack of his lightning fast kung-fu.



Ok. That didn't actually happen.



Still? Oliver is quite a groovy guy, with his many names. Although it would be hilarious if his first name was Gilbert Graham Gordon. Then his initials would be, like GGGGG. OR, if his first name was Gilbert and his last name was Spot. Then he'd be G-Spot. Or... yeah.



These are the ways that I have injured Oggy over the years:



Dislocating his arm. Well, I'm sure I might have breathed a bit too heavily next to his shoulder during our younger years. Seriously, his arm actually fell out of its socket at the slightest provocation.

Knocking him over and causing the world's biggest bruise to appear on his head. I mean, it was seriously huge. It was like the fucking king of bruises. It was an even bigger lump than Cassie. (Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh RINSED)

Introducing him to the man-voiced beast of chin.

That time I beat him unconscious with a baseball bat. Oh wait, that was a fantasy.

All the thigh-grabbing.

And, finally, meeting him with his one true love, Steve. Actually, when I say 'one', I mean, 'first of many,' , when I say 'true,' I mean 'mind controlling hell-beasts' when I say 'love', I mean, 'from venus, controlling his mental impulses by a mind-chemical secreted through its third eye,' and when I say Steve, I actually mean 'Lord Graaarhthagnngan, high lord of the scalor race and future destroyer of Earth.' Yeah.



Oh, me and Oli, we have had our memories. Remember that time when I was sleeping and you flew into my room through the window and... oh wait, that was a dream. Actually, re-reading this post I feel that some of my wording with conjunction with the picture, might give the, ahem, wrong impression of Oggy-Woggy. Poofter. But believe you me, he's as straight as they come. Ish. Actually, hes as bent as the moon. POOFTAH. Smile.



Anyway, yeah, Happy Birthday, and thanks for all the fish, you vegetarian shit.



Today/tomorrow's celebrity zombie slayer: Ogg, with his cricket bat.