Son of a bitch...

I just found out that some prick has stolen the title of my blog. I mean, who else on this earth would ever think to put the words Chainsaw and Zombie together, I don't know. But the designers of Doom 3 did, the twats.
Here's their (infinitely more lame) version of a Chainsaw Zombie:



I mean... wtf? How lame is that. That's not a Chainsaw Zombie. Thats a brown fat bald turd with no nipples, a stupid chainsaw/penis, and camp as hell pair of leatherette boots. Its more of a LAMEsaw Zombie. Did you see what I did there? Did you? I just took the word 'Chainsaw' (inherently cool), and TURNED IT ON IT'S HEAD to form the insulting 'Lamesaw', which, I thought, was jolly hilarious. Yeah.
The more I look, the more it disgusts me. This guy is a disgrace to all the proper zombies out there and, as such, should be thrown into an industrial mincer full of angry hornets, covered in honey. In fact, NO. That would give it attention. It should be in the far, far, FAR distance of the huge zombie crowd scenes, where nobody without an electron microscope can see it. Thats the only thing THE ONLY thing that this creature warrants in the zombie world. In fact, it should be a werewolf, or a haunted scarecrow, or an insane monster, or a fuckin' mummy, one of the other lame movie monsters out there that are inherently uncool and, as such, can be screwed with as much as the Doom Designers like. Just keep this abomnation away from the proper zombies who have a job to do (wandering around in a comical fashion, bumping into each other, falling over, and very slowly catching/eating stupid old ladies with wooden hips).

This is what the Doom 3 Monsters Guide (I wasn't on there, I swear, I'm not a loser. Oli G found it, probably while searching for a chainsaw to go out and cut down some trees in his part-time job as a lumberjack: he is that manly) had to say about this sorry matter.

During your adventure on mars you'll learn that Chainsaws were accidently delivered on Mars, in which you'll later find zombies wielding the chainsaws... Chainsaw Zombies!
Unlike their counterparts Chainsaw Zombies can pack a punch, however their range is very limited and not to be feared.

Firstly, why the FUCK would you ever 'accidentally deliver chainsaws' to a planet? Do you know how much effort goes into a shuttle launch? They don't train the astronauts, design + build the spacecraft, fill it with chainsaws, set up the launchpad, hire all the workers, start up the computer system, clear the sky, launch the rocket, programmed to go to Mars, by accident. Its the kind of dipshit thing that even the American's couldn't pull off (ooh, topical humour, aren't I great?) So, yeah. Any why didn't Mars have any chainsaws beforehand? As, apparently, this planet is the home of the living dead, its the one thing you DO need. Chainsaws. Chainsaws.
Secondly: NOT TO BE FEARED? Its a ZOMBIE... WITH A CHAINSAW. They are the most terrifying beasts on earth. Count Dracula? A chainsawified (new word, there) zombie could take him. Darth Vadar? Screwed. Batman? Dead. Captain Scarlet? In hospital (he can't be killed, being the manly man he is). In fact, the only people I could ever consider taking a Chainsaw Zombie are Oli Gill and Hunter S. Thompson.

Hunter Thompson is a DUDE. He is probably one of the most hilarious writers I have ever read. Basically, his books revolve around him getting totally shitfaced and having wild and crazy adventures with violent and possibly psychotic people (ie. The Hells Angels, his Attorney, a guy trying to sell him a monkey). And when he died, his ashes were shot out of a cannon. Can you get much cooler than that? No. You fucking can't, no matter how hard you try.

So, in conclusion, this fella:



is a total dipshit, and should never be allowed the title of Chainsaw Zombie. This, children, is what a proper Chainsaw Zombie looks like:



... with any body. That guy could take the Lamesaw Zombie, any day of the week. Yeah. Hell, it would just have to look at it, with those cool red eyes and the lamesaw would piss itself and waddle off to annoy somebody else.

Honourary zombie killer: Roy, the PROPER Chainsaw Zombie, not the pansy imitator.

Waiting for a bus is like waiting for a BABY

Things I did yesterday:

Visited a concentration camp in Berlin, that was under construction
Watched some Germans attempt to build a guard tower for said concentration camp
Saw some men drilling books
Wore the mask of a fictional comic-book terrorist, then danced about in my SEXY hoodie
Unsuccessfully tried to sneak into a theme park
Saw TWO film stars... well, one star and one demi-star
Watched the destruction of the Old Bailey to music
Saw many artworks

So, basically, my day on the V for Vendetta sets was pretty well spent. Man, that film is gonna kick so much ass. And I saw Natalie Portman. Hell, I could have run up and stabbed her, if I'd had a knife, or had wanted to. But seriously, she is SO SMALL. Its like, a sudden wind would blow her away. She is like Emma. Except she's fit, and doesn't love Mike. EMMA LOVES MIKE. Raise your hand if you didn't see THAT shocker coming. NOBODY. So that's... what? FIVE relationships that I've set up, now? They should name all the kids after me. Hahahhaha... Imagine the kids between Emma and Mike. That's gonnna be ODD. A slight, tall, afroed black man who looks like a cat and has no tits. But still, cudos to me for setting it up in the first place. Christ, I'm a better matchmaker than this girl:



Ahhahahahah. That picture is so damn funny. Tom Cruise has really gone downhill. And why do they have a ball of wool? And what's so damn funny? The picture says 'Single Father', so the woman can't be the mother. So she's a skanky girlfriend/sister, and is therefore not the girl's birth mother. OR... she is the mother, and is about to be hit by an 18 wheeler/fall off a cliff/be killed by the chinese mafia/run away with the milkman, get aids, then die slowly and painfully/all of the above. Actually, that would rule. Then the dad loses it, Man on Fire stylee, and goes on a rampage of revenge... you know, that book could actually rule. Well, it would if it was done the way I'd do it.

AND IT SAYS SUPER ROMANCE AT THE TOP. What the FUCK is a Super-Romance? Like, cupid flying about, kicking nine shades of shit out of everybody, then saving the world from the evil Monkor, who is, as we all know, eeeeevil. Fuck me, I want to read that book now. Let me find a synopsis online:

In Ridge City, Tennessee, widower Alan Ridge, CEO of Windridge Distillery, worries about his nine year old daughter who severely injured her back in the car accident that killed his wife. Louemma has successful surgery, but shows no signs of healing and her doctors insist her problems are psychosomatic.
Divorced from an alcoholic spouse, weaver Laurel Ashline has moved to her late grandmother's home in Ridge City. She provides weaving therapy to patients who need help for their arms and wrists. Alan's grandmother decides that Laurel is perfect to help her great-granddaughter and forces Alan to agree to the therapy. As Laurel reaches inside to Louemma beyond the loom, she learns the guilty secret that has incapacitated the child even as she falls in love with the two Ridges.

The main character is a fucking WEAVER, the lamest of the professions. I rest my case.

AND NOW I AM IN ENGLAND. Fun beans. For about three days... I go to fucking Amsteram on the 2nd. For the rowing camp. I would rather be back at the concentration camp. No JOKE. Anyway, I have a sexy Berlin fleece, and might go get a haircut later on, and them I shall watch One Flew Over the Cuckoos nest. And God bless me too.

Zombie weapons are starting to annoy me now. Uh... hammer?

The rest of France...

Yeah, I can't be bothered to finish blogging the rest of France properly, as it would be another four or five LONG mofos of posts, and nobody really cares. Well, if they do, screw 'em. I can't be arsed.
So here's a list of amusing things that happened each day, for those who CARE. Losers.

Monday 21st
I had a nightmare about doing a Chemistry paper. Look, Chemistry papers are fucking scary, ok? I hate them. Etc.
I had to go into French school.
Miles related how he hates fish, and yet THAT'S ALL THE FAMILY SERVED. Ahahahaha... spacker.
Curryyyyyyyy showed up. And Naidu too.
The Physics teacher, in an act of educational skill that surpasses Henry (Popeye), didn't show up to the lesson, so we pissed of and played table football instead. Man, the French are good at that game; they actually have tactics, as opposed to the traditional English 'just kick it really hard and hope it goes in' method, which I've found is very useful. Amusingly, playing against them, they only one ...

TO BE CONTINUED

Battle Royale RULES

Seriously, this film is far more ruling than a really big bag of rulers:



Huzzah. Basically, this group of students have to kill each other on this island.
Seriously, that's it. Ahahaha. So this got me thinking, as is my way. Yeah, I can think. I don't just follow the nearest thing with a skirt around as has been accused of some of the others, by me. But let's not be mean. Here's my idea for the 5D Battle Royale. How much did that link rule? Fuckit.

Frazer: Lads, basically you have to all kill each other.
Chippy: No!
*I pull out a machine gun and pepper that gimp*
Chippy: NARGH! My small annoying voice has been forever silenced!
*Everyone kills each other, leaving only Me, Mike, Ogg, Paul (even though he's not in our class), Oli G (ditto), Steve (who doesn't even go to our school) and Marios.
Mike: Hello. My name is Mike, and I am a black man. BLACK POWER!
*Mike uses waves of power coming from his afro to crush Paul to the ground*
Paul: Black... power... destroying... me.... must... use... COOKIES!
*Pulls cookies from his hand-knitted satchel and frisbees them at Mike, who is knocked to the ground*
Paul: A HA!
*Suddenly, he is stepped on by a HUGE boot. The owner? Oli 'manly man' Gill.*
Oli: Mwhaha!
*He flies off, but is roasted by a vent of fire from Steve's maw*
Thomas: Time to take out the trash!
*Draws a sword, and throws it at Steve's head*
Ogg: NOOARGH!
*he leaps in front of the sword, is impaled, and falls to the floor*
Steve: OLI!
*she licks out her long chamelion tongue and eats Oli whole*
Steve: mmm. OH SHIT... BONE CAUGHT IN THROAT!
*Steve explodes, taking off Mike's head with one of her razor teeth*

This is then followed by a really violent sequence in which Marios is generally abused by me, and finally he falls into a big pit. The end.

This was a really lame blog.

Zombie killer: A pillow

France - day 3

Well, after that odd (and frankly depressing) little introspective, I have returned to bring you news of what's going down in the France area. Well, what WAS going down in the France area. I don't know now. And, anyway, it won't just be about that, cos that is BORING. I'm sure that we'll go all tangental pretty damn soon. Fuckin' tangents. I am so gonna fail AS Maths. See, I did it already. Grrrmph.

Day 3 - Sunday 20th

BLAM. I woke up on this day, feeling like I'd been in France for fucking ever, and that SURELY I must be halfway through by now. Unable to figure this out in my tired English brain, I made a little calendar and ticked off the days I'd completed. To my utter HORROR I had only done 2 out of 7. Shitwankers. Thats less than... uh... half (my calculator is over there on the desk, and I can't be bothered to get up from my comfy sofa and go get it).
After crying in the foetal position for a bit, I went out and greeted the french world. We played a HILARIOUS game of pool in which I discovered, to my amazement, that I was pretty damn good at the game. I still lost, but, fuck it, pool isn't a real sport either. It's not even at the Olympics, and they have bloody CURLING.
Seriously, who the hell came up with curling? I mean, football, I can understand. Two cavemen with a severed head start kicking it to each other, and before long, the 'beautiful' game is born. Basketball, too. The cavemen had some unusually retarded members who liked dressing up in big clothes, so they threw them a pit, then threw their food through a basket. Its an easy step to the basketball of today. BUT CURLING. I can't think of a single possible reason for our caveman to go: "Hey, Bob, why don't you slide that stone over this ice, and I'll rub a broom in front of it to get it into a circular area to score points. We can then repeat this 13 times and tot up the scores at the end on a board." I DON'T THINK SO. CURLING THEREFORE SUCKS.

Also, can I say at this point, informercials RULE. There's this one in English (which means that I have watched it) for these slimming pants called California Slim n' Lift Silhouette. Its on now, and DAMN, I want one. I think that tomorrow, I will time the advert and count the number of times they say the product name. *Cackles* this is HILARIOUS. Look at the fat women, and OOH BOY, their problems are solved by some elasticated pants. YOU ARE STILL FAT AND UGLY, YOU STUPID BITCH. JUST PUT DOWN THE FORK AND DO SOME DAMN EXERCISE.
Thank you.

Um. So. After a lunch of pizza, we went boating, me and Nick and his fatherio. Damn, this was a nice boat - a sort of speedboat dealie. VROOM. And nicks father decided to drive it as fast as possible across waves, as is his god-given right. Shit man, the last time I bounced that much was when we were trapped in that burning building and I jumped out and Rick Waller happened to be standing there, eating a bathtub full of congealed grease and pretending to sing. After bouncing a bit, we fed some seagulls, and I tried to explain that I had once been to Thailand. What the hell is French for Thailand? I looked it up in the dictionary, and I found that it was Thailand. But its PRONOUNCED Theilond. Well thats stupid, isn't it? Hahahhahaha, look at that fat bitch. She talks like a man. I wonder if the fat-pants wil sort her out. My prediction: No. There are altogether too many fat people about today. Actually, there are the same number, but they are fatter, so they take up more space. There is no room for normal people ie. ME. Only kidding. I'm not normal. I'm fucking superhuman. Lalalalala
After boating, we went back to a bar, where there was a yacting medal ceremony going on. Confused as to why I hadn't won it (if you don't know, I am the junior yacting gold medal championship winner of Europe, and GB's only hope for the Olympics in Yacting, Kickboxing, and Weightlifting, and also YacboxLifting, a combination of the three that involves kicking the shit out of a heavy robot, then lifting it and throwing it into the sea from your yact, which you have also been piloting at the time) I watched intently as the prize was given out. 63 bottles of wine. 21 bottles of each colour. Who the fuck needs 21 identical bottles of wine? I'll tell you who: Denzel Washington, in Man on Fire. That is quite a good film; I saw it last night. Basically, its this black guy getting annoyed and beating the shit out of people, with fancy subtitles. Pretty sweet.
Then I went home, had macaroni, and collapsed into bed. Wicked fucking BEANS. Are you getting bored of this yet?


WHY DOES NOBODY COMMENT ANYMORE. DO YOU THINK THAT I DO THIS FOR MY OWN DAMN AMUSEMENT? Actually, I do. Fuck you. Still comment, though. I need to know that somebody reads this stuff. Waaaaankers.

Honourary Zombie killer: Denzel Washington, with a knife, some duct tape, a pistol, an anal bomb, a shotgun, and lots of fire

This is an angry blog [Edit]

For fucks sake.
This country sucks, everyone walks far to fucking slow, I hate shopping, everything is branded bullshit, its raining, my neck hurts like hell, I've managed to scratch the top layer of skin off my nose, my legs are covered in insect bites, I have a fucking ROWING CAMP which is going to be SHIT four days after I get back, nobody speaks English, THE DAMN RINGTONE COMMERCIALS are giving me migraine, my family are pissing me off, as soon as camp is over I have to start revisions for the damn GCSEs, I'm crap at all the sciences and the maths, I have a bunch of homework still to do which I'm not gonna get done, this holiday has been taken away from me by damn European countries, everybody speaks damn German here, I got no sleep last night, my little brother snores, the pillows are too damn soft, I can't stop twitching my neck, everybody is angry all the time, I'm feeling homesick, yet I don't particulary want to go home, I have so damn much work to do, rowing is depressing me, my social life is depressing me, my health is depressing me, everything is depressing me, niketown annoys me, my siblings are getting so much more attention than me...

Life is BAD. And I'm whingeing about it. But thats not my biggest problem.

I Have already been fucking replaced. For fucks sake, I go away for two fucking weeks, and you wankers just replace me with somebody else. Christ's sake, talk about a betrayal. Well, fuck you all. Pretty much the whole bunch of you are just hangers on, and its really starting to piss me off. I MEAN CHRIST. ARGH. You know EXACTLY who you are. I am really very very cheesed off with everybody (excluding Fati).

I also hearby officially resign from the SWP/H grouping, to join Oli Gill in his resignation. You lot can all piss off and have a mass orgy, which is where it seems to be heading, from where I'm standing. Screw it, I'll go back to having no friends.

Cunts.


Wow, good to get that off my chest. Hahahhahaha... it is fun to wind people up. You losers. But still, I'm quittin' the gang, as you lot are starting to depress me with your depraved ways. Seriously... the orchard is yours. I shall go and find a nice quiet vineyard somewhere, where I will live in relative peace and tranquility, until some bored person shows up, invites all his mates, eats all the grapes and generally fucks the place up. And from there... who knows? A plantation, perhaps. I know not. It seems that wherever I go, somebody has to steal my fruit. C'est la fucking vie, as the French say.
I realise that that was a long and pointless metaphor that will only be understood properly by one person. But hey, its the right one, so I do not care. La di da. Go marry yourselves.

There is no zombie killer today

France - day 2

Day 2 - Saturday 19th

After a night in an actually extremely comfortable bed, I woke up, and realised a terrible thing.
IT WAS NOT A DAMN NIGHTMARE. I ACTUALLY WAS IN FRANCE.
Shiiiit. After a shower, in which I noticed that there were no locks on the door, I sort of crawled into the kitchen, to see the oh so damn lovely mother making food. Well, pouring some water into a bowl. I had another cup of coffee, just to keep the ball rolling, while Nicoz came in and drank some warm milk.
We then had an amazing game of ping pong. Well, I say game, I actually mean 'game'. As ping pong isn't a sport. I refuse to acknowledge it as a proper event. ITS JUST STANDING THERE. You can do ping pong naked, or wearing full ski uniform, it makes no difference. I don't know WHY the School Ping-Pong team has to change before playing. What, in case your wrists overheat? Losers. Anyway, the ball happened to bounce incorrectly more times for me, so I 'lost' the 'game' 10-21. Do I care? No. I'm much more annoyed at the ease in which I have been replaced back home. I've been gone TWO no ONE WEEK and already you have nicely filled my hole. Wink wink. NO, wait. Screw you.
Yeah, so we then had a bike ride. I forgot that the French fuck everything up and cycle on the wrong side of the road, and nearly got hit by a car. But I also noticed that everyone in france is so damn polite. Everyone said 'hello' (well, 'bonjour', but lets not confuse things with make-believe words) and waved at us when we cycled past. If you were walking down the road in England, and two teenage boys cycled past, would you say hello? No, you'd probably scream, dive out of the way and quiver until they were gone. But, yeah, a LOT of politeness. Nicoz showed me a football stadium, I told him about pikeys. It was a cultural exchange.

For Christ's sake, how come every advert on German TV is a damn ringtone commercial? NOBODY LIKES RINGTONES. If I hear that damn Mr Chaos thing again, I am going to hurt somebody. And as my little brother is asleep next door, it may well be him.

Then we played FOOTBALL. Anybody who knows me will know of my legendary skills (read: Uselessness) at football, so the less said about that, the better. But the neighbour showed up, and carried on the french sense of co-operation by refusing to speak any english. Hey, France, guess what? We saved your ass not once but TWICE, so stop acting like your language rules so damn much.
We had fish for lunch. And wine. But, more importantly, COFFEE. Ah, yeah. I was starting to develop a slight addiction to coffee. Oh well. Not like you care, is it? You and your new friend. Bah. I'm quitting the group, to start my own regenade commando elite. Yeahhh.
Me and the frenchy found some common ground, however, in the international comedy art form. Yep, Jackass. After watching Ogg get dead-legged repeatedly on my phone, we found some website that did home-made jackass. A guy jumping in front of a train, then off again? CHECK. A guy fuckin' breakdancing UNDER a bus? Yep. A supersoaker filled with window, cleaner, ignited, then fired at a wall? Hell yeah. Some things transcend cultural borders, and stupid people hurting themselves is one of them.
Then, we went to a town called HAHAHHAHAH Cassis. It was just so damn hilarious, especially with the Cassis Diving School, and a postcard saying 'I had fun in Cassis'. Its pronounced 'Cassie' for the slow (read: Kris) out there. But, most importantly, I HAD ANOTHER COFFEE, bringing the total up to 6 in two days. Also, I saw a french girl up close. Fiiiiit.
The coffee didn't work too well, as I fell asleep in the car home, but, yeah. I was tired, you twats. I had only had a few hours sleep the night before, and my system was over-taxed. Losers.
After a meal that went on forever, due to the french propensity for stuffing food into their guests... we went out. Bowling. Mmm. Everyone knows my LOVE for bowling, so you must have known how I felt.
But this was no normal bowling alley, oh no. It was like a pool hall/nightclub/disco inferno/bar/partyland/hell dealie. And man, was it good. Thankfully, there were a few English (yayyy) and I was free to wander off with them, as my exchange's girlyfriend turned up and he more interested in her.
The music was so damn loud. The bass - seriously - was making my huge manly legs vibrate. It was that damn strong. Anyway, after watching Sariel repeatedly fuck up the bowling, Jason rule all, and John's amazing dancing (which looked like long distance running) I stepped up to the bat, sciring an AMAZING 83. Well, not great, but still better than Saz's pitiful effort. Then I realised - to my horror - that there was actually a trance remix of that sound your phone makes when you hold it next to a radio. Oh, shit. I hate trance music. I hope that DJ Sami DIES. Combined with this 'music' and some alchohol, the french got very overexcited and started dancing on the alley, and scoring strike after strike. Don't care, bowling is also on my list of non-sports. I made up a new game: Just insert peadophilic lyrics into Micheal Jackson songs. Its surprisingly easy.
Then, on the ride home, I felt depressed and isolated. Sort of like the guy in the Shining, but without the ghosts. The Shining is a scary film. Actually, no it isn't. It was bit of a letdown. But MISERY, that's a scary film.
ARGH, THAT FUCKING FROG. I DON'T WANT A RINGTONE... SHUT UP.
Screw it. I went to bed at 1.30. That's all you need to know.

Next time on MY BLOG... pool, pizza, boat racing and 63 bottles of wine in every colour

Zombie Killer: Throwing that crazy frog at them. Really hard.

FRANCE - day 1

It's like Germany, but with more French people. Yeah. Well, I'm sitting here at 11.04 in a Berlin hotel suite, listening to a German version of Die Hard and chewing my lip. And now, I shall henceforth give a full and frank description of my time spent in France. Well, the first day anyway, as I really am far too goddamn lazy. La di da di da da da.

Day 1 - Friday 18th
Well, I got up at 3. DAMN. I didn't even know time EXISTED before 5am. It was odd. I had my first cup of coffee (black, lots of sugar) before hopping in the car and tootling down to school. The Hampton area is WEIRD in the early hours. Gone are the pikeys. Instead there are a bunch of random guys in bright orange jackets, cycling about, possibly sodomising each other in the cold street corners. Odd.

Now German Lethal Weapon 4 is on. Mel Gibson is oddly dubbed over. I didn't think it was possible to do a german accent with an australian twang and, uh, I've been proved right. It just sounds retarded.

So yeah, we arrive at school, and the first thing I see is Murray, with a backpack bigger than THE SUN. I mean, CHRIST. I know you're in CCF, but do you really need to bring all your clothes in a huge fuckin' camping pack? We're going to live in Marseille for 6 days, not the damn amazon rainforest for two years. Grr. Meanwhile, I had my HUGE holdall, with my 8 pairs of underwear (works out at 1.3 pairs per day, perfect for my extra leg and huge genitalia. Yeah.) which I gleefully used to squash everyone else's.
Also present in this crazy vaudenville we call life were Saz, Miles, some others, and JASON. The others need no introduction (well they do, but they're not getting one) but JASON. Jason is a huge indian guy with a beard and the worlds most hilarious laughter. Seriously, he GIGGLES like a girl. Its brill. Jason, seriously, needs his own fan club. In fact, he has one. NOW. It consists of me and Curry (who will be introduced later, bless his heart), and basically we parade about waving flags with Jason's adorable face on it. Yeah.
So, yeah, a while later, we were in Gatwick. After they had ascertained, repeatedly that yes, we were indeed not terrorists, we were finally allowed through security. Airport security really annoys me and I will blog about it later on, possibly after I've gone through the German equivalent which, I hear, is about 200x worse. Damn fuck shit. ANYWAY. We weren't terrorists -phew- but I did get some measure of amusement at finding out that J-Dog had managed to get a pack of razorblades through the security screening. BLESS HIS HEART, he'd forgotten he had them in his bag.
I had my second cup of coffee in the airport, and bought some batteries. I KNOW, big spender, eh?
Then, after about another 5 layers of security, we got onto the plane. I was struck at this point that riding on planes is like riding on buses. Its just a form of public transport that takes about 40000 hours to get onto. Wankers. I hope that planes start falling out of the sky again, for no reason. It would be HILARIOUS.
So yeah. On the plane, I listened to the Pixies (BAND) and screamed in frustration as I remembered that Parker pens leak like crazy in the air. I don't know why, they do. But my nice new trousers had permanent black ink on them for the remainder of the week. I had another cup of coffee on the plane. Mmm, coffee.
Skip to the end... we took a coach, train, then bus, and ended up at the lycee. On the way, I ascertained one important detail about France, which MUST NOT BE IGNORED:
French girls are FIT
Well, not the faces so much, but most of them have nice bodies. Me and Miles had a competition to spot the fat french girls, and over the week we only managed about 10. TEN. I get that many just rotating my head a fifth of a turn in London.
At this point, we met our correspondants. The meeting went off well, and the English/French were soon intermingled and joining forces to make a better, more unified world. I am of course being facetious. We looked at each other nervously, laughed, then slowly backed away into our separate countrymen. AND A GOOD THING TOO. We can't have the British/French intermingling. Imagine the CHILDREN. They would be weird tall plant people with huge noses and a terrible sense of direction, prone to spontaneously combusting at the first mention of the word 'lemons'. Christ.
Then, yeah, there was a tour of the lycee. I'm sure that this was very interesting, but the effects of the coffee had worn off, and I was in a serious coffee low, to the extent that I was only able to sing two lines of a Pixies song over and over again. Singing "I hate this street" gets old. Fast. So, yeah. But the lycee was very nice, and there were some quite good bits of machinery. Who am I kidding, I was paying no attention.
BUT THERE WAS SOME AMUSING grafitti on the tables, so that was good. And there were table football things. So, yeah.
I AM LOSING INTEREST IN THIS ALREADY. I cannot BELIEVE that you have read this far. You fucking losers.
Bla bla bla... we all stepped on Jason's shoes. AND GUESS WHAT? A certain member of the teaching staff once went out with Miles's mum. Hahahahhahahahhahahahhahahahahaha. Ah, clarkey, you legend.
So then I met my guy's mum. SHE IS SO NICE. She's like, nicer than Jesus. And jesus was a nice guy, in his pussy way. I mean, just because he got beaten up by a bunch of Italians who, lets face it, aren't the hardest race on earth (that honour goes to the Phippsys, a master-race of people fathered by ME) doesn't mean that he wasn't nice. Yeah.

Ok, I feel that a paragraph break is necessary here, just to break the monotony. BET YOU WEREN'T EXPECTING THAT, were you? Yeah, I bet the paragraph break gave you a damn heart attack. Twats. I'm missing a decent party to type this up, so you should be honoured. The fact that the party is taking place in a different country makes no difference whatsoever.

BAM. Another one. My initial plan (to speak as little french as possible) was scuppered almost immediately, by the discovery that Nicoz (my frenchy) had had pretty much the same idea, but in reverse. And, as it was his country, he had the advantage. So I was SCREWED. I actually had to speak FRENCH. Damn. Man, just you wait till you get to England, frenchy. I'm gonna be talking in the fastest, thickest, chav-tongue you ever heard. And I'll get really angry if you fail to understand anything.
NOT REALLY. The french are NICE. They were all lovely. And anyway, Nicoz had a big ol' selection of video games. Really, after you've blown up a car, hijacked the fire engine and run over 5 innocent pedestrians on GTA, you'll feel at home. Yep.

And after a meal of ham/cheese/potato things, and me making a really dipshit French error (I said "my mothers says today" - TODAY AND HELLO ARE SIMILAR SOUNDING IN FRENCH, YOU WANKERS) I collapsed into bed, a tired, quivering wreck. Yeah.

Stay tuned for football, anchovies, a town named after my least favourite person, and a techno remix of that sound your phone makes when you send a text message next to a radio

Honourary zombie killer: a German-speaking John Maclane

Back I am

I am back.
Can't be arsed to blog at all, as I am a lazy cunt.

BEEF ON MURRAY.

Zombie killer: me, being back.

Mike 'Token' Younis

There, you got your mention.
Shit, man. I'm going to France tomorrow, for like a week. TO STAY AT SOMEONE'S FAMILY. Ah crap. I think that my secret will finally be revealed. The deep dark secret that has plagued me for most of my life. That secret: I'm Crap at French. I don't know why this hasn't been picked up yet by the teaching staff.
I know no vocabulary.
I can't write properly.
I can't conjugate verbs.
My grammatical skills are POOR.
I can only oral properly after thinking for a few hours about what I'm about to say.
Similar to my mathematics skill, I worked REALLY hard at French for two years to get into the damn school, then simply coasted my merry way through GCSE, without any real skill at the subject. I have forgotten it all. I don't even know the word for 'fork'. Or 'spoon'. Or, you know, any cutlery. What happens if I need a new pillow? Or I start bleeding from my ear? I don't know the word for ear. Argh. Why am I going to France to live with a bunch of frogs for A WEEK? I'm totally fucked. Deary deary deary me. I'm just gonna rely on the family speaking bad English, and me speaking bad French, and the two shit languages sort of working each other out. I guess.

But not as fucked as my mother thinks I'm going to be. Yes, she packs my bags. Yes, I know it's pathetic, but she doesn't seem to consider me capable of doing it properly. In fact, she apparently doesn't seem to consider me capable of bladder/sphincter control, judging by the list of things she packed. For SIX DAYS, she packed me:

Four pairs of trousers
EIGHT PAIRS OF UNDERWEAR
About 16 pairs of socks
Roughly 17,000 t-shirts
Some headache pills, just in case the French people haven't developed aspirin yet
Plasters. Yes, plasters.

Christ, Mother. And then, most irritatingly, she calls me downstairs to ask what she should pack, then tells me. And then frowns at me if I disagree. Ah, c'est la vie. AS THE FRENCH SAY. Oh crap, my imagination has now started working overtime. Here are the many bad things I could imagine taking place in France:

a: The French kid hating me. And then leaving me in the middle of nowhere.
b: Arriving there to find a gang-war going on inside the house, a la Luc Besson.
c: The French kid uses me as a drug mule.
d: Getting kidnapped and sold as a slave.
e: Accidentally setting fire to the house/breaking a family heirloom/making a hole in the wall.
f: Killing a family member by accident.
g: Sitting on the dog. Or getting bitten by one.

Yeah. So, I won't be blogging for many a day. Dear deay deary ME. I'm sure at least one person will die of boredom. Etc. Post comments on this if you miss me. It'll be like the answering machine method of my mind.

And Cassie, you'll be ok without me. *slides vibrator out of box cheekily*
Hahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahah.

Zombie Killer: A baguette.

ART v 2.0

WICKED. I finished my damn Art GCSE today. HUZZAH. I mean, it's impressive to fit 40 minutes of painting into 5 hours, but I managed it today, with a very simple system:

a: See what has to be painted.
b: Walk very slowly over to get the desired paint pot.
c: Take the long route back, having a good look at everyone else's artworks.
d: Pour out the paint, trying to get the greatest distance between the pot and the palette.
e: Slowly walk back to replace paint pot, having a look at everyone else's work.
f: Repeat c.
g: Pick up a brush. Examine, then replace in pot. Select another brush.
h: Slowly mix the paint. Dab on paper.
i: Panic, then re-paint over the bit you just painted. Smudge the bit you just did, using your finger.
j: Wipe the paint on finger onto arm.
k: Examine painty arm. Paint dots on it. Giggle to self.
l: Finally do the painting, using some fancy system of painting, wiping off with a towel, drybrushing over, then wiping over with the towel again. Yeeash.
m: Repeat proccess.

Wicked beans. So here's the final thing:



Sorry, but that is DAMN good. Like Stuart's feet? I do. Well, not really.

Zombay killer: A giant FOOT.

ART

WOAH, DUDE. My Art GCSE - THE ACTUAL ONE - was today. Well, the first half was. I LOVE ART DAYS. Full days of art are so much damn fun. You just sit there and paint. Or stand there and paint. Or (in my case) dance around the table, gayly (not in a homosexual way) dabbing a paintbrush here and there.
Actually, that's not true. I am not a dabber. I am more of a troweler. During art days, I have four different states of being:

a: Pouring out vast amounts of acrylic onto a palette. Then loading up a brush and smearing VAST qualities of the coloured stuff all over the page, cackling internally at my pure evilness.
b: Scribbling over what I've just done with a blunt pencil, rubbing it out, redrawing, madly scribling some more, then painting over that.
c: Losing interest, wanding around, checking out what everyone else is doing. Man, there are some damn talented people in my class. I mean, Tom Green's was AMAZING. Leonardo Da Vinci, step down and piss off, you bearded italian wanker. And Simon's, despite being as dull as fuck (ooh, seed pods... woo.) was good. Well, there are some spackers out there too. Yeah. But I have to say, overall, mine was the most original. Who else did a snail's life story over three panels? Uh, nobody. So fuck you.
d: Staring blankly at what I've just done. Mentally weeping. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I also paint all over my hands and arms. I AM COMPLETELY SMOTHERED IN PAINT. Its so great. And it didn't help that I accidentally knocked the paint palette over my hand. Twice. Ah well, fuck it.

In all of these states, I am singing the same portion of a song over and over again in my head, ad nauseum. This is an extension of the boatie jukebox: The Art Exam Jukebox. Here is the list of songs I was singing:

Singin' In the Rain (Look, I was watching Clockwork Orange the night before, ok?)
The Masochism Tango by Tom Lehrer- a HELL OF A SONG. Here are the lines I was singing:
Your eyes cast a spell that bewitches,
Last time I needed twenty stiches,
To sew up the gash, that you made with your lash,
As we dance to the masochism tango!
So yeah, it might have been annoying, and given me a headache, but it sure was HILARIOUS.
Poisoning Pigeons in the Park, also by Tom Lehrer. The title pretty much gives it away.
A Hymn. I don't know which one. You know, it has God in it. ABOUT PILGRIMS. Uh. Who so beset him round, with dismal, uh, yeah. Fuck'em. It was pretty damn Godly.
I'm bored with singing. Why aren't we allowed iPods in the classes? I mean, I don't have one, but I'm sure I could steal Bertie's.

ANYWAY. My final design was to be a sort of snail/triptych dealie, basically concerning the birth/life/death of a snail. It was to be a deep, dark, philosophical work, considering the lifetime higher/lower philosophical aspects and levels of life.
Yeah. Bollocks. This is what I came up with:



Hahahhahaha. Do you like Matt's knees? Wicked beans. And those tasty little socks.
Oh, my picture's crap, isn't it? I think so. Especially as, upon arriving today, I discovered that THE ENTIRE CARDBOARD PAINTING SURFACE had bent. So that it now ACTUALLY STANDS UP BY ITSELF. And there are giant damn fucking arse air bubbles in it, as you can see.

And I forgot to bring my pencil sharpener.
Or a rubber.
Or, indeed, a sharp pencil.
Basically, I forgot everything. Oh well, I still have tomorrow to sort it out.

Thank God.

Zombie killlllller: Evil, Evil Snails of doom.

TV Choice

Tonights TV choices: Crimewatch and Super Size Kids

Crimewatch
I love this show. It is so damn FUNNY. The way they look really serious all the time, and act like it's really really serious. I mean, come on, Nandos got robbed. Who gives a shit? Not ME. I was far more interested in the hit and run. They brought in the woman's two daughters, who were both about 60, talked and looked like MEN. And the WAY they bigged up the mother. It was hilarious. Seriously it was like this:

Ugly Sister No.1: Well, we are absolutely devastated.
Ugly Sister No.2: DEVASTATED.
Ugly Sister No.1: We lost our mother.
Ugly Sister No.2: OUR MOTHER. She was run over.
Ugly Sister No.1: And left for dead in the gutter.
Ugly Sister No.2: You wouldn't even do that to an ANIMAL.
Ugly Sister No.1: And we haven't just lost our mum.
Ugly Sister No.2: Our aunts have lost their sister.
Ugly Sister No.1: Our children have lost their nan...
[They then go on to mention EVERY SINGLE POSSIBLE family relationship to this poor woman]
Ugly Sister No.2: AND OUR DAD.
Ugly Sister No.1: He is very upset. In fact, I think he might die.
Ugly Sister No.2: DEVASTATED.

It went on like this.
Anyway. More fun bits about Crimewatch:

Watching how the Presenters randomly walk across the studio for no reason whatsoever.
Rating the rape victims in the reconstructions, then giving them a rating from 1-10. (1 is YOU SICK RAPIST FREAK and 10 is HIGH FIVE THAT MAN)
Actually, the reconstructions FULL STOP.
The criminal hall of fame, with photographs of evil, evil men who, uh, attempted to steal money from Lloyd's TSB but were caught.
The list of moronic criminals who:
a: Steal activated security cameras
b: Steal the money, then lock themselves out of the room with the money

I LOVE THIS SHOW. It's funny.

Super-Sized Kids
It was about, uh, fat kids. And we were supposed to pretend that we cared about their plight. Ooh, fat-boy Fatty wants to lose a stone?
HERE'S A HINT. PUT DOWN THE FORK. FACE!
(Apologies to Family Guy). But seriously, this guy just sits and whinges about how hard it is to lose weight. Ooh, boo bloody hoo. Do I CARE that you're a human shut-in? Uh, no. Why should I have to cheer when somebody goes from being morbidly obese, to being slightly less obese? I SHOULDN'T.
I DON'T CARE THAT THE FAT GIRL CAN'T GET A BOYFRIEND. SHE'D PROBABLY EAT HIM IF SHE DID. And then, she loses like half a pound and starts blubbing on about how her life has changed dramatically. Uh, WHAT? You're still the whale woman, you fat 13 year old bitch.

The funniest bit of this show was this fatty-girl bowling. I COULDN'T TELL HER APART FROM THE BALL. Tee hee hee. Spray paint her purple and she's Veruca Salt.

Mwhahahaha. Oh yeah. One more thing. OGG HAS GENITAL WARTS. Wicked beans.

Zombie killer: A big fat fuck of a kid.

Vive La France!

Fuckin' Frogs.
Anyway. Today I had my Mock AS French Oral, about Luc Besson. Did you know that Luc Besson originally wanted to work with dolphins when he was younger, but a diving accident forced him to reconsider his plans? Well, I knew that, and I can also say it in French. Uh, Luc Besson, uh... Still.
I think I have cracked the secret of French orals. It very very simple:

a: Always ALWAYS procrasinate, but do so in a French accent. Just saying 'err', but in a deep french accident, sounds incredibly smart and yet also wastes time. Saying 'non, je veux dire' then repeating what you just said is a good thing too. And always ALWAYS have a little pause between sentences.
b: Gesticulate. It makes it look like you always know what you are doing and impresses the teacher. For example, in today's performance, I made a gun shape with my fingers and fired at my knee on two different occasions. So, basically, that's all you need to know. Of course, it wouldn't do to just sit there and say 'err' in a french accent for 10 minutes. Then you'd look like a FUCKING RETARD.

So, overall result: 50 out of 60 Well, that's pretty good, you know. Wipes the floor with the rest of you semi-literate, semi-continent jackasses with your C in Ethics. Seriously, what the hell is Ethics? I bet the Ethics exam goes like this:

Question 1: Which one of these should you not do?
a: Save injured kittens from drowning
b: Give money to charity
c: Help old women cross the road
d: Run into a field that you own and pick non-endangered wildflowers
e: Brutally kidnap, rape, murder, rape again, then mutilate a young hitchiker called Fred
f: Hand-rear a lamb

End of test

Seriously, Ethics is the most retarded thing ever.
Fuckit, I can't be bothered, I'll blog about the french exchange later on.

Zombie killer: Biro

Everybody is stupid except me

... well when it comes to cinema choices, they are. Picture the scene: We are at the cinema. Everybody except me wants to see Hitch. I am the only voice of reason with my cry: "Let's see Constantine! Constantine!"
But NOOOO. Here are a list of reasons given to watch Hitch:

It has Will Smith in it.
It, uh, has Will Smith in it.
It's on a bit later on.
It sounds like shit (although this was from Roxxxay who honestly, isn't the sharpest tool in the proverbial shed. SHE HAS A MCFLY WRIST-BAND. I rest my proverbial case)
Steve doesn't like films based on her life.
WILL SMITH

So we went to see Hitch, or, as I like to call it, the magical minority circus. I swear, every character in this film was a minority. Even the other male lead was fat. In fact, the only white people were the evil, nasty pig of a man and the uptight evil editor. Yeah, great. I'm not necessarily a racist, but STOP CASTING TOKEN MINORITIES IN EVERYTHING. I mean, they're remaking the Wizard of Oz with fuckin' Beyonce playing Dorothy. ARGH. Positive fuckin' discrimination is so stupid. Everybody needs a slap.

So back to my previus point... HITCH IS CRAP. Constantine would have been better any day. AND HERE'S WHY. I shall compare them on the many points:

Titles
Hitch: Yeah, sound like a wedding sound. Change one letter, and you get Itch. What makes you itch? That's right, genital leprosy. Therefore, Hitch is just a giant STI. Great fuckin' film there, you're named after genital maggots. Nice. Niiiiiiiiiice.

Constantine: One word title, quite cool sounding. If you change one letter, you get Cuntstantine. Hahahahhahahahhahahahahhahahah. See, that is FUNNY.

Main actor
Hitch: Will Smith. The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. He plays a wide range of roles: cheeky comic chappy, uh, black guy, angry, and, uh, cheeky comic chappy. In Hitch, he plays cheeky comic chappy, but with an added 'lame' twist. Also a musician. A rapper. Well, not a real rapper. He sings about nice things, ie butterflies, kittens, and booying down. Not to mention that his song was called 'Big Willy Style'. Kind of like a motto for www.imafuckingpoof.com chatrooms. And, really, the Fresh Prince of Bel Air was a fuckin' pussy. He kept learning valuable life lessons. Who likes valuable life lessons? NOBODY. Morons.

Constantine: Keanu Reeves. Ok, he may not be the greatest actor in the world (he usually just does confused, angry, stunned,
or an odd mixture of the three... consangrunned) but, come on, he does have a certain cool level. I mean, playing the right character, which is 'confused hacker/slacker/vampire hunter who says 'woah' a lot', he's quite groovy. He also plays in a fock band called Dogstar. I don't know how good this band is, but for fucks sake. At least it's not wuss rap (no swearing?) called 'giant penis fasion' or whatever. Rock = cool. Lame wussy non-swearing rap music = lamer than the boat club dinner. And, at the end of the day, Bill (or Ted, I can't remember which one he was) could totally the Fresh Prince's Shit.

Main character
Constantine: A demon hunting hardass motherfucker with lung cancer, who takes no shit from nobody. Instead of normal weapons, he has crusifix carved knuckledusters, cross shaped shotguns and A HAND HELD FLAMETHROWER. Dude.

Hitch: Some ponce called Hitch whose job involves poncing about making people fall in love with each other. Seriously, who the hell are you, Cupid? You moron. Instead of normal genitalia, he has a massive vagina. Because HE'S SUCH A WOMAN.

Storyline
Constantine: Uh, there are these demons and shit, and Constantine has to, you know, kill them. And Satan turns up, but Constantine ruins his shit.

Hitch: Uh, there's this fat guy and... uh... Hitch sets him up with people, and then there's this other woman who he falls in love with AND WHO CARES? SERIOUSLY. It's totally pointless. THERE IS NO PLOT. I can't remember the name of any of the characters, I don't give a shit about your problems and really, you're all twats. Ooh, you can't fall in love? Fuck you. Constantine has lung cancer, and he doesn't whinge about it. No, he just keeps smoking away.

I WANT A JML IRONING BOARD COVER! And I want it NOW.

Women
Constantine: Rachel Weitz who, despite having a jewish sounding name (therefore making her a perfect bride for Omer) is fitter than a spring bean.

Hitch: Some latino woman who was only cast because the studio's wouldn't accept the idea of a white woman and a black man getting together. So, yeah, well done, bitch, you got the role because of your skin colour. Well bloody done.

Violence
Constantine: DUDE. HAVE YOU SEEN HOW MANY WEAPONS THERE ARE IN IT? HE'S HOLDING A SHOTGUN ON THE DAMN POSTER.

Hitch: Oooh, look at me, I'm Will Smith and I'm all camp and gay and I just want everybody to fall in love and be happy and gay and we'll all dance about in a circle la di da di da look at me tee hee hee now I'm off to shower posies over my head la di da look at me IM A TWAT.

Just kill somebody already, Will.
In case you didn't know, I HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN CONSTANTINE.

Grr. And the most annoying thing? The entire damn cinema was filled with people watching Hitch, and they laughed their fat arses off at each HILARIOUS BIT. Such as this comedy GEM: Hitch looks through a curved peep show and, eh, his head is, hhahhahahaha, his head is, oh god, this is classic, his head is all BULGY because of the curvature of the glass. BECAUSE HE'S LOOKING THROUGH A PEEPHOLE. OH GOD, STOP ME LAUGHING, MY SIDES ARE SPLITTING.

I need to punch something, fast. Where's Zippy?

Honorary zombie killer: Hitch. Well, when I say honourary zombie killer, I mean 'guy we strip naked, tie up, cover in tenderising sauce then throw to the hungry undead'.

Arrrrrrrrgh.

My life is filled with hard things (WINK WINK) until the sodding 27th of June.
Here are the hard things in order:

Monday: My AS level French mock oral, which I am FUCKED for.
Wednesday/Thusday: My actual Art GCSE. Have I done enough work? No, of course I bloody haven't.
Friday: Go to France for an exchange. Everyone is gonna discover my secret; I actually know no French. It's gonna be so awkward/embarassing/painful. And then the Frenchy gonna come over here to visit later on. Grrph.
This is then followed by the rowing trip. WHICH IS GOING TO BE SHIT. It really will. I hate rowing so much; it has screwed up my social life, my sense of internal balance, my karma, and my hands. I go into long periods of depressed silence, purely because of rowing. Cunts. And I can't quit, because there are only just enough people as it is, and if I left, I would be screwing over seven other people. Damn you, conscience. Oh, to be Homer Simpson.
So yeah, when rowing camp is over... BAM. End of holidays. Overall, I will be spending less than half the holidays at home. I LOVE HOME. Being at home, and warm and comfortable, is my idea of heaven. I don't like being abroad, on a freezing rowing lake being yelled at by angry russians. Well, only one russian in the boat club, and he's not angry. Sort of drugged up and hyper instead but STILL.
Then, ZAMMO. Into revision for GCSE's. According to Frazer, we are meant to do 3 hours a day for every day of the holidays. HA. HA HA. Yeah, like that's likely to happen even if I was in the country.
And then, the actual GCSE's, which I will probably fuck up, as is my skill.
In the middle of those is the National School's rowing thing, which we will LOSE as our boat keeps getting screwed by the higher powers. This year's decision: Ooh, I know, let's make a TOP J16 FOUR! Yeah, nice one. So that means that the eight, which I'll be in, gets fucked up, as usual? Whoopety fucking doo.

So basically, I'm pissed off with life. Especially rowing. Oh well, in a while my depression will be over.
When I say 'a while', I mean 'when the Summer holidays begin'. Man, the Summer is gonna be so sweet. AND NEXT YEAR WILL BE A DOSS. I mean it. English Lang, English Lit, French, and History. Hahahahhahaha. I CAN THROW AWAY MY CALCULATOR. Yayyyy. And thats a good thing, cos I broke it on Friday. I was bored with the DAMN SIMPLEX METHOD so I stabbed it with a compass, but I miss-aimed and managed to land it in a crack next to a button, and break the circuit board thing. So now when I type out a number, it misses out the middle few digits. I can no longer write BOOBIES backwards on the screen. For shaaaaame.

Oh, and one more thing:

Hitch is a piece of shit. Do not go and see it.

Wew.

Zombie killer: Rope.

The name's Zombie. Chainsaw McZombie.

Hahhaha. I should have named the blog Chainsaw McZombie. It's just funnier on SO many levels. Oh, wait. Yeah.
Although I actually know the writer (ha) and attended a preview screening of both DOD and TWINE (double ha, you twats) I will admit that pretty much every Bond film after Tomorrow Never Dies (I liked it) has been pretty dump. They usually go like so:

1: Bond does something heroic in the opening section.

2: Lame opening sequence full of computer generated breasts.

3: Lots of lame political maneuvering, with Bond looking confused and waiting to bust some heads.

4: Bond busts some heads.

5: Introduce lame villain. THE PREVIOUS FEW BOND VILLAINS (with the exception of that guy who could shoot electricity out of his hands) have all been lame. I mean... a WOMAN? What the hell was that? I mean, she was never even a credible threat. Can you imagine Bond getting the shit kicked outta him by a girl (for an example of what this would look like, watch Jackass: The Movie). And Robbie Coltrane... ooh a scary bald guy. He feels no pain, because he was shot in the head? Ooh, big deal. He could be fucking superman, doesn't change the fact that he is a slaphead.
With the exception of 47 from Hitman, Pete Postlethwaite and, I'm sure, some others, bald people are not scary or threatening: FACT

4: Bond has a HILARIOUS interview with Q, or R, or whatever, full of hilarious quips. R then gives him his fancy things, which Bond will use exactly once. "Now this is a specially built thing SO DON'T BREAK IT, WHATEVER YOU DO." Bond will break it later on.

6: Introduce lame Bond Girl, who will always be 'feisty', 'sassy', or 'fully capable of taking care of herself.' Why do producers/scriptwriters thing that having a heroine who can take care of herself is some revolutionary idea? For Christ's sake, every film since the 90's has had feisty heriones who can take care of themselves. It. Is. Not. Revolutionary. It. Is. Annoying. You know what would be good? Casting a blonde bimbo who gets trapped in cages all the time and screams like a pansy for Bond to save her. You know who would be perfect? Kim Bauer from 24. I swear that bitch gets held hostage every other hour. I mean, come on. In this series of 24 I'm watching so far, she has been:

Held hostage by an evil husband.
Held hostage by him again.
Been arrested.
Trapped in a bear trap being menaced by wildcats.
Locked in a bunker with a psychopath.
Held at gunpoint god knows how many times.
Held hostage by an evil Mexican in a conveniance store.

And every fucking time somebody else saves her. Useless cunt. Yeah, so she should be the new Bond girl. Or, even better, the sacrificial lamb who gets fed to sharks. How come nobody ever gets fed to sharks any more? What, aren't sharks good enough for you pussies now? They probably replaced the sharks with fuckin' CGI spiders in the new one. I dunno.

7: Have a car chase, possibly with INVISIBLE CARS. And, as the film is sponsored by BMW, don't actually damage any of the cars. WHATEVER YOU DO. Don't want to piss off the sponsors just for the sake of a little thing like, uh, artistic integrity.

8: Have some other shit happen.

9: Have a big confrontation. Have Bond kill the enemy in an exciting and original way. How come Bond never just beats his enemy to death any more? He used to do it all the time back in the Connery days.

10: Have a cute thing with Bond making out with his feisty Bond girl, and then cut to the credits with some lame techno-rock piece by a band that will most probably go under as soon as people realise that they were lame enough to do the Bond theme. Cos, yeah, everybody always associates James Bond with techno-rock. You people sicken me.

If I had my way, these films would be a helluva lot different. And HEY, GUESS WHAT? I'M THE KING OF THE UNIVERSE, I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT. So, with no further ado:

My Bond film. Title: Death by Suavenesisity

Scene 1: Ok, it's in MI6, and Bond is given his assignment: Stop somebody from blowing up something important.

Scene 2: Somebody tries to blow up the important thing. This guy is a ninja, complete with long fuckin' Samurai sword. Bond leaps out of nowhere and beats the shit outta this guy for about ten minutes.

Scene 5: Bond meets with Q, who gives him his weaponary: some knuckledusters, a baseball bat, and a flash suit full of knives.

Scene 3: Introduce the baddie. Um. It's an evil King of some foreign country called, uh, Lord Baddy. To emphasise the fact that he's evil, he'll be blowing up puppy dogs, ordering the arsony of orphangages, and having sex with two year olds all in the first ten seconds. He then orders that Bond be killed to his head henchman, a 9ft tall Voodoo Samurai Clown called, uh, Luc Bessony (Note: No similarity to the French Film director).

Scene 4: Bond, following up on a lead, goes to a nightclub. The bouncers won't let him in, so Bond, thinking quickly, beats them both to death with a two by four he finds in a back alley. Bond goes into the club. The DJ is playing annoying music, so Bond switches off the mains electricity, then shoots him in the spine. Then Bond schmoozes with two girls: One is feisty, the other is a silly bimbo. Then BAM Luc Besson and his army of ninja clowns burst into the club with miniguns and give the place a good sprayin'. The feisty girl gets CUT IN TWO.

Scene 5: Something else happens. Somebody gets fed to pirhanas, or sharks, or a very weird pirhana/shark combination called Shirhanas. Somebody with a hook for a hand turns up.

Scene 6: The writer (me) loses interest, so Bond winds up in the King Bad or whatever's castle fortress. After being tortured for a good ten minutes, he knuckledusts his way out of that situation, before busting along to the pre-boss chamber. He kicks Luc Besson in the head, shattering his skull, then defenestrates him.

Scene 7: Bond finds King Bad, throws him down some stairs, then proceeds to beat the living shit out of him for A FULL HOUR of film.

Scene 8: Bond loses interest in this, dynamites King Bad, then flies off on his helicopter, JUST as the island fortress mysteriously exlodes. SERIOUSLY. What sort of dipshit evil villain has a base that can be blown up with a flick of a switch? What happens if the cleaner accidentally turns it on? Very bad planning.

Scene 9: Bond kills some zombies. Zombies are always damn good.

Can I be bothered with this any more? Uh, no.

Honorary zombie killer: James Bond, bitches.

A list of some things that are annoying me...

In no particular order...

1: Rave music
On Monday, I hitched a ride with the (loser) 1st Eight on the way back from School's head, and they listened to Rave Music all the way. Now, if there was ever a good explanation for them losing (other than most of them being fuckin' jerks) it's rave music.
Its SHIT. Rave music sucks so much. It's like a huge bloody vacuum in dustland, sucking up the little dust people with its giant nozzle of death. It literally sucks THAT much. Here is what rave music is composed of:

a: The 'music'. Well, not really music. Usually its three notes played OVER AND OVER AGAIN AD NAUSEUM, and every three rotations they add another irritating drum beat. Or, failing the drum beat, a squeaky electronic noise. Also, they steal these three notes from other, good songs. It's three fucking notes, dipshit... you don't have to do anything else (in fact, all the creative imput seems possible by a 14 year old using his dad's computer) but you can WRITE THE NOTES. I mean, CHRIST. There are techno-rave remixes of everything. Do you know why the writer of the Pink Panther Theme Tune didn't put his beloved score to the wicked phat beats of a synthesised techno drumkit? Because he knew that it would sound SHIT if he did. Which it does.
Occasionally some bitch with a squeaky voice will pipe up and squeal about 'desire', or 'love' or 'reaching higher'. Well, at a musical level, you can't sink much lower than singing on a rave soundtrack. Hell, whistling in a Physics lesson, just to piss off Mr Clarke has more artistic merit. CHRIST you make me shit.
b: The Disk Jockey or, as I believe you young people call them nowadays, a 'DJ' (that reminds me... I look fucking FIT in a dinner jacket. James Bond can go to hell. Actually, he can go to hell anyway... JUST LET TARANTINO DIRECT THE FUCKING FILM).
The DJ on this particular rave CD was, actually, the biggest fucking dipshit I HAVE EVER MET. He was like a guy who has diahrea, but hasn't eaten anything for three days. He kept talking, but nothing was happening. He was just saying random syllables and moronic phrases about 'beat it' and 'dance to the top'. Heres a quote that he might have said, I can't remember cos I WASN'T PAYIN ATTENTION:

Yo yo yo, we'll take it to the max! ... Wicked! Wicked wicked wicked WOOOOO! TO the TOP! ONE ONE ONE ONE FOUR! Down to the top! MAX! I wanna hear you SCREAM. SCREAM. WICKED. WOOOO. TO THE TOP! WICKED! Yo. Uh... some fat beats now. DJ FUCKWIT (NB: This was not his actual name... how I wish it was) to the MAX! Woo! Um...
OOH OOH OOH OOH OOH OOH OOH OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH TO THE MAX DOWN TO THE TOP WICKED. I want to hear you SCREAM, WHITTON! WICKED! You don't wanna be anywhere else but here! WOO...

And it went on like that. If anybody needs a good throttling with a telephone cord, it was him. Grr.

2: AS Maths
Look, I will reveal a secret. I'm shit at Maths. I got the A* in GCSE maths just by freewheeling (for two fucking years!) off the hard work I did to get into school. And now I've been stuffd into the AS level set, in which maths is hard and scary. I don't remember telling anybody that I wanted to be placed into an AS level set. Yet somebody, in their infinite wisdom, decided that was where I'd rather be. Uh, NO. I would much prefer to be in any of the following classes:
English
French
Spanish
Art
History
IT (we don't even have an IT class)
Biology
Chemistry, yes, Chemistry
Fucking PHYSICS
Oh, wait a second. Did I just list every other class I do? Oh yeah, I DID. Why's that? Oh yeah, its because I DON'T WANT TO DO AS LEVEL MATHS. It fucking SUCKS. Everything is hard, counter-intuitive and POINTLESS. Yes, that is the principle problem. Who gives a shit whether I can double differentiate something? Nobody. When I'm in my future high paid career of King Journalist of the entire planet, am I ever going to need to produce a circle trigonometry graph? In fact, for that matter, is ANYONE? Sitting here, using the entire power of my brain (that's a lot of manly power), I can't think of a single occasion when trigonometry graphs would ever... and I MEAN EVER... be useful. Fuckit.

Anyway. I missed school on Monday, because we were busy losing School's head and, as such, missed the maths lesson. And as LUCK would have it, I also missed the start of the new topic, and the homework based on it. Now, one would think that, having not been introduced to the subject, I wouldn't have to do the homework. Well one would be WRONG, moron. Here's the conversation:

Me: Miss, I didn't do the homework, because I wasn't at class on Monday.
Teach: Homework, please.
Me: No, I wasn't there so I didn't do it and thingy said that we had a new topic.
Ogg: He hasn't done the topic, miss.
Teach: He can speak for himself. No homework?
Me: Yes, no homework. I haven't even started the topic.
Teach: Well, you should have done the homework. Copy Oliver's notes. I want it in tomorrow.
Me: But how am I supposed to...?
Teach: If you get stuck, go to a Maths clinic.
*swans off*
Me: Not so fast, bitch.
*I pull out a 12-Gauge and take out her spine*
*This last part may not have happened and, in fact, didn't.*

And then, later on in the lesson, she yells at me for copying OGG's maths notes. FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. Aralkdjfalsjdf;lasdjf;asjdfassahdfk;hasd;fhasdjk;fhasdk;fhasdhfkjasdhfljkasdhfjkasdh, MATHS IS POINTLESS, I WANT TO GO AND LIVE IN A CAVE AND NEVER HAVE TO DIFFERENTIATE ANYTHING EXCEPT FOR THE FISH I AM GOING TO CATCH AND EAT, AND WHEN I SAY 'DIFFERENTIATE', I MEAN 'MARINADE IN VINEGAR'.

You cunts.

3: Comic Relief
It's just not funny. It isn't. You know what the most comic and the most relieving thing about Comic Relief is? When it ends. Because, mathematically, Comic Relief is negative funny, so when it ends, the negative will be removed and so the overall funniness of television will actually rise significantly.
And honestly, who gives a shit about Africa anymore? I mean, I know its all terrible and stuff, but Africa is so passe nowadays... Asia is where all the action is AT. The Africans have had our support for the last twenty years, and a good lot of use its done them. They can't just sit there and expect us to bail them out all the time with shitty TV specials and lame charity records. I bet Bob Geldof was really pissed off when the tsunami hit, because everybody immediately stopped caring about his lame re-hash of Band Aid. Do they know its Christmas time at all? Probably not, Bob, as they've got enough problems of their own without worrying about a religious event about some guy getting born in a stable and being horribly poor but STILL HAVING MORE THAN THEM. So in conclusion: Piss off, Geldoff. Haha.
Well, the racist part of the blog is over... back to me destroying Comic Relief:

The Noses... NOT FUNNY. What's so bloody hilarious about some guy looking like he has a tumour on his face? If I want
hilarious tumour humour (which I often do) I watch Casualty or read the 'sorry about you getting cancer' cards in Clintons. Man, I am OFFENSIVE today.
The 'Celebs' making fools of themselves... not funny. NOTHING IS FUNNY AND do you know, I can't be bothered to finish this rant now, as The Simpsons is on and... something. I might finish this later. Or, not. Whatever.

Kill zombies with... uh... something.

Return of Clarkey

Yep, Mr Clarke has made a comeback in a lesson so wild and wacky that it deserves yet ANOTHER blog post.

Look, it was either this or me doing another 'you're trapped in a room with only a key and a map to the door... how do you escape?' post, so count yourselves lucky. Actually, just having this blog exist to give a meaning to your pointless lives, so stop bitching. Well, nobody is bitching. I'm just imagining people sitting at their computers going "W00t?!!!???Q1? MR KRALKE AGAIN! LOL ROLF HAXX0R P0WRNS LOL ROLF AAHA!!!! ONE!!!!!!11!!!

Man, I hate the words 'w00t' and 'haxx0r' above all other techno-babble. THEY DON'T MEAN ANYTHING, YOU NERDS. Just use the correct word or go and suck some power cables. Actually, do both. Wankers. ANYWAY. Here's the lesson:

Class files in dutifully. Thomas slumps at his desk, already depressed beyond measure, and buries his handsome manly face in his handsome manly hands. Mr Clarke wanders in and wanders out again without saying anything.
The classroom assistant comes in with some equipment. Everyone cheers. We ask him if he fancies teaching the lesson instead. His reply? 'Mr Clarke is much more entertaining.' Hmm.
Clarkey comes and gives out some graph paper. There isn't enough. Somebody asks him if there's any more. His reply? "There is definitely enough I think."
We do the graph. Oliver and Joe start hurling bits of paper at Thomas's back. Thomas sits there while half a bloody tree covers his seating area.
Mr Clarke does some stuff with his computer, which seem to mostly involve him scrolling back and forth across a spreadsheet full of pointless numbers. He brings up an experiment from yesterday that Thomas wasn't in school to experience; apparently, it involved dice rolling. Thomas is amused at Oliver's group's claim that they managed to roll 24 sixes in a row out of fifty dice. Not only this, but Mr Clarke also bought it.
Pete's cheeky face pops up at the door. He grins at us. Mr Clarke doesn't notice.
We do some more boring notes.
Pete's cheeky face pops up at the window. He grins at us. Mr Clarke doesn't notice.
Thomas writes something in his book, feeling the slow, yet deadly, onset of suicidal depressiveness that always occurs at around this time on a Tuesday. There's a medical term for this; "Ohholyshitwearentevenhalfwaythroughthefuckinglessonandtheresstillanotheronetogoandmygodmrclarkeisacuntatosis".
Pete's cheeky face pops up at the door AGAIN. Thomas wonders why Pete isn't in lessons. Mr Clarke see's him, and chases him out the door with a cry of "You there! Boy!"
Thomas turns and throws paper balls back at Oliver and Joe, who giggle girlishly.
Mr Clarke returns to the room and gives Thomas evils for no reason. Thomas sits there and pretends to look abashful.
Mr Clarke plays with his computer some more. He calls us up to the front for a demonstration. He doesn't know what the radioactive isotope it, then sprays the front desk with cancer rays. Thomas makes up a new game called 'Leper's Elbow': basically, you stab Joe in the arm with a really sharp compass. Thomas also makes up a joke:

What is Micheal Jackon's favourite game involving cows?
Moolesting boys.

Hahaha. Well, it made me laugh. The cow jokes are a new invention by me and Omer. Here's the most offensive we could come up with:

Where did Jewish cows go in WW2?
An extermoonation camp.

You have no idea how much that made us laugh. We really are a bunch of racist cunts. Still.

Mr Clarke fucks up the experiment. He gets annoyed and tells us to sit down again. He also gives Omer a detention for standing there.
Mr Clarke starts to write something on the board. He gets one letter in, then totally loses what he's doing. He turns round, tells us to stop whistling. He gazes slack jawed into the air for a good twenty seconds, not doing/saying anything. Finally, somebody in his brain gets up and gives the machinery a kick, and he goes back to writing.
It seems that about ten people start whistling. Mr Clarke gets annoyed and turns round again. We all shut up. He goes back to working.
Whistling starts again.
Mr Clarke stops writing. He caps his pen. He walks over to the desk very slowly, and picks up a tissue. Everyone gazes at him, silent. He stares into space for half a minute, then looks at his computer and taps the mouse with his hand. He then reveals to us that we've been working from the wrong textbook for the entire Physics course, and that he refuses to teach us any more unless we stop whistling. Thomas LITERALLY has to bite his lip to stop cracking up.
Mr Clarke goes back to work.
A few people start clucking their tongues really loudly.
Mr Clarke loses the plot again, and gazes back into space. He refocuses and sends Oliver outside. Oliver walks out, looking abashed, and probably pisses himself out in the corridor laughing.
Mr Clarke lets Oliver back in.
Mr Clarke gives Oliver a detention.
The bell rings, everybody piles out of the classroom, except Oliver, who Mr Clarke wants to have a talk with.

BUT THE STORY DOESN'T END THERE.

We sit in Biology, being quiet and well behaved. Oliver doesn't show up. We worry about him.
Many theories are put forward to his disappearance, the most popular being 'Mr Clarke is raping him'.
The bell rings. We realise that Oliver has actually probably used his talking to from Mr Clarke to go home early.

Yeah. This was a boring post. But I fucking swear you, it was piss funny at the time. We are such a terrible class to teach, I swear. We have made both the Physics and Chemistry teachers contemplate retirement. But the Biology teacher loves us. Apparently we are lovely. Hmm.

Zombie Implement of killing: really long sharp scissors!

I'm going off the wheels on the Crazy Train....

Yes, I know. I am already going off my previous doctrine of no song lyrics. But it's my blog, so fuck you. And those lines perfectly sum up how I am feeling right at this second.

Well, first things first. We had our very-important-its-all-been-leading-up-to-this rowing head today. After getting up at a rather godly hour (8? yay) and finding out some good news... (my mother was forcing my still hung-over gimp of a brother to go to school) and hanging out with my seriously cool grandad (no, he actually is... when he found out how drunk little bro' had got he started offering him whiskey and making countless piss-taking jokes) it all seemed to be going well. But then we actually did the race.

I HATE ROWING. I really do. It actually is the most shit hard sport ever. I nearly died. Literally. I saw heaven. It was a bit crap, really. Full of fire and demons in pitchforks. Morons.

During the race, I spat three times at the river. You'd think that I'd be able to hit the fucking river, right? Well, you are WRONG. Here is where I actually hit:

1: My arm,
2: In an amazing piece of aiming, my own face,
3: The guy in front of me's head. He didn't notice. I made a mental note to apologise, and did so later with jelly beans. Actually, he hadn't noticed at all, and so was more annoyed after the aplogy than before, but SCREW YOU.

But seriously, rowing is so bloody hard. When the race (which we did shit on, I predicted) was over, my leg cramped. Seriously, seriously, painful. You girls, you whinge about labour. NOTHING compared to leg-cramps. Lazy twats, all you have to do is sit there and push. I mean, how big can a baby be? Lets do some calculations:

Baby's head: About 7ish centimetres diameter.
Vagina: I don't know... half a metre? Ok, lets be a little more realistic: 35 centimetres diametre. Because it's basically a huge round hole, correct me if I'm wrong. So, with a bit of maths, that works out as a surface area of 962.113 square centimeres, compared to the 38.48 square centimetre area of the baby's head. So using that rational, it would be possible to easily squeeze out 27.9 babies in one go. The 0.9 of the baby is the retarded one that they have to lock in a cage and feed scraps of meat to.
27.9! That's nearly 30 babies. And you bitches whinge about pushing out ONE. Pah. I could do it with my eyes closed.

(Note: I realise that I have probably pissed off about 50% of my HUGE reading audience, with my lame maths and even lamer biology. Good. Stop complaining about labour, I don't care)

Also, some twat stole my shoes, so I was forced to wander around wearing only a pair of sandals with freezing, soaking wet socks (yes, I know, socks and sandals, HUGE fasion no-no, but you're fat, ugly, and have either: {if a girl} no tits or {if a boy} giant sexy tits and I HAD NO SHOES) swearing madly at everybody and ranting. Anyway, who the FUCK steals trainers? I mean, come on. I was about to have a major tantrum, when I found them again. Apparently RSSBC, the cunts, decided to put my shoes in their box and bury it under a huge pile of stuff. So, although they weren't technically STOLEN, it really was. They would have taken the shoes if I hadn't actually spent those hours searching for them. Twats.

So, after all that, how did we do? Well, we came a respectable 5th. Cough-outofsix-cough, and so that was GOOD. No, actually, it wasn't. It was shite-bollocks. But at least everyone did crap. Especially us. So yeah. And my legs hurt, I feel like I am going to melt into a big pile of melted singed flesh. You twats. But at least I won't have to go in that fucking freezing Tideway water for at least another year. And who knows, I could be dead in a year. We can always hope.

ARGH. So picture the scene: I'm exhausted, tired, weary and worn out. And then *bam* my mother tells me she can't pick me up because my little sister apparently also needs to be picked up, and she's more important because she's just a girl. And she's 10. I don't get it. Why would anybody want to kidnap and rape her? Given the choice, I'd kidnap and rape ME. I'm a damn sight more sexy than her, and, due to my poor cramped legs, I wouldn't be able to run as fast, or hide in any rabbit holes. Damn you, mother.

AND to top it all off... here's a list of the homework I need to get done:

A Physics paper
A Chemistry paper (A WHOLE ONE... I hate Chemistry... it's like leprosy in a jar)
A MASSIVE chunk of Spanish Translation about Frankenstein. FRANKENSTEIN? Why? I don't KNOW.
About 20 pages of Art. I am so bored of fucking snails. Not literally of course, that would be sick. I wonder if there are any internet sites including snail pornography? A quick google search reveals 66,500 pages featuring snail pornography. So, yeah, a lot of perverts out there.
A load of Biology reading
A pile of French oral work... eugh

And I have already had two detentions (IN ONE DAY! Wicked beans) this half term, so I can't get another, or it will be a Saturday for me. Arghrharlkjsadf.

Nuts to this.

Zombie Killer; An oar, known technically as a 'blade'

Why don't I have a fan club yet?

No, seriously, why don't I? I mean, it seems that every man and his dog has a fan club now. I mean, here's a list of the cunts and whores who have fan clubs:

Oh, holy shit: www.margosmith.com
Um... who the hell releases a song called 'my give a damn's busted" ? Here's your answer: www.jodeemessina.com/home
I actually just cracked up laughing when I saw this poster: www.asleepatthewheel.com/
Who The Fuck? www.branscomberichmond.com
FITNESS ON A STICK. Well, she looks familiar. Oh yeah, I think I once saw a menaloma with similar hair colour: http://tinoco.bizland.com/tamra
Hahahhaha.... www.counterfit.com/
THIS ONE HAS MUSIC. And, it seems, an innocent old man: www.patboone.com
You might not be able to tell, but the reason that this fella only has one name is that he's actually a cardboard cutout: www.cerritoonline.com/
Never in my life have I wanted a pack of enraged killer monkeys. Or a bowling ball: www.rushlowband.com
*Grins*... insert caption here... www.sherrisjubilee.com

OK ENOUGH. I could actually quite easily keep searching through the SHIT fan clubs out there... but I won't. Onto the serious aspect of tonight's blog: I don't have a fan club! Well, to alter this situation, I have now started the following organisation:

The Phippsy Rules Organisation (PRO, as in professional, or, uh, prolapsed rectum)
If you want to be a member of PRO, simply send me a cheque for $4.99... every day. My adress can be found on DoILookLikeAFuckingIdiotToYou.co.uk (man, I hope that this bit of url html works... if it doesnt I shall get VERY ANGRY... hahha... bold.)
In return for your $6.99 per day, you will receive:


So don't delay! Sign up for PRO today! At only $7.99 an hour, you can't afford NOT to sign up! Actually, if you do sign up, you can have some html code to post the ChainsawZombie blog on your site so that more people can join PRO and I CAN EVENTUALLY TAKE OVER THE WORLD like the sexy guy I am.
And you know, it will happen.

www.martyparty.com/html/
Hahahhahaha. I know its mean, but it's funny. Like tripping over death people or selling a midget a cape.

Honourary Zombie killer: Marty Stuart, you sexy mulleted beast.

This is a test post

Well, it is.
Stop looking at it.

Is this bold? I hope it is...
And if this isn't italic, I'm gonna be very angry

Well, fuck it.
I now know how to type in bold.
And man, you will pay for this.

Mweahhaha.
Oh yeah, and dipshit's fine.

Kill zombies with: BOLD! MWAHAHHAA. Etc.

My little brother is, officially, a total dipshit

No, seriously.
He's in the hospital right now after drinking far, far, far too much.
Apparently he was comatose and unresponsive.
And do you know what the worst thing was?
THE WORST?
I had to leave my party early.
Well, it was more of a gathering. BUT I STILL HAD TO LEAVE IT.
I have half a mind to go down to that hospital and kick his drunk ass... and I reckon I could take him.
He is comatose after all.
Stupid cunt.

Zombies killed with HUGE amounts of alcohol, the dipshits...

MSN Screen names are stupid

Case closed, take him away.

No, but seriously. Why is everybody except me such a dipshit? If you take MSN screen names as an indication of mental fitness, most of the world is still shitting themselves on a regular oppurtunity.
AND THAT REMINDS ME
I was born before Ogg, Cazzoid AND Joe. Do you know what means? I was able to:

Breathe by myself
Pass my own fecal matter
Circulate blood
Eat
Look at things
Feel the touch of a woman (or in Cassoid's case, man)

ages before the rest of you. So basically, I'm better in every conceivable way. So, uh, fuck you. *raises middle finger*. Oh yeah, I was able to do that before you too. Because I HAD FINGERS FIRST. Shit, man, there's a lot of stuff I could do before you fuckwits. I HAD A PENIS BEFORE JOE. Take that, you horny russian-screwing rugby sex-toad. Ha HA.

Um.

Oh yeah, MSN screen names. THEY ARE RETARDED. Looking down my MSN list (filled mostly with people that I a: Don't know and b: Don't like), I count 14 screen names ( I know, popular, eh). Of those 14:

6 have emoticons or odd bits of punctuation in there for no reason
3 have song lyrics
6 have inane philosophical musings
1 has a lame countdown about someone's lent
6 actually include someone's name
2 have long lines of pointless characters
1 has a description of exactly what that person is doing. Do I care that you are showering? No. Just go offline.
1 has a desription of someone's love life

Right. And this was a good day. Most of the morons are off kicking themselves in the head or repeatedly headbutting walls. And possibly filming it. For fun.

Here are my rules for an MSN Screen name:
1: Never. Ever. Tell us about your love life. I don't care. We don't care. Nobody cares. In fact...

*Stops random man on the street*
Me: Do you care about this girl's love life, and the fact that she loves J?
Man: Hell no!

Pretty damn conclusive.

2: Song lyrics are retarded. They were not designed to be read. If they were, the singers (I'm not calling them 'artists'. 'Artists' is what you call someone who produces Art. Van Gough was an artist. McFly are not. In fact, the only connection between them involves razor blades and ears. Van Gough cut off his ear with a razor blade. After listening to McShit for 10 minutes, I do the same to both ears, then beat the ugly blonde one with the lisp (SERIOUSLY... WHAT SORT OF ROCK STAR HAS A LISP? I'LL TELL YOU. A DIPSHITTED ONE. Woah, I just realised that I have gone into some brackets inside brackets) to death with a piece of jagged metal) would sell their songs in wee little hymn books with titles like 'The Wee Lyrics to Life For Rent', by Dido.
BUT THEY DON'T. And do you know why? Yes, correct, because lyrics are meant to be SUNG AND NOT READ. Lyrics sound retarded by themselves. Here's the last verse of one of the most rockin' songs ever:

Where do we go
Where do we go now
Where do we go

It doesn't sound rockin. It sounds like an old man and his dog getting lost in an airplane toilet. Very. Very. Very. Lame. Song lyrics are fuckin' moronic. PERIOD. Hahaha, 'period'. And they become about 1000 times more fuckwitted if they are put between (8)s. Oh yeah, it makes little musical notes. Big deal, you're still a moron.

3: Here is a simple equation.

EMOTICONS = RETARDED

Seriously. Who the hell types :) or :D into screen names? Its just SO LAME. Whats worse is when people type their names like this:
*^(F)t(F(L) Moron (*)(L)(F)t:D
Ooh, well done. You can type smileys. Well that makes you an interesting person who I am interested in talking to. Damn, that's irony. I should be elected king of the world.

4: I don't care what you're doing. I don't care about your lent choices. I don't care about your philosophical musics. A journey of 10000 miles begins with one step, you say? HMM. Well I shall certainly alter my lifestyle based on that bit of DAZZLING insight. Grr. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care I don't care.
nb: I just typed all those I don't cares by hand. No copy and paste for me. That's how little I care.

Ok, screw this. I'm off to Oggs, for fun, dancing, and a huge motherfuckin' game of squares. I just learnt how to play a Russian Doubler, and I'm actually itching to get him with it.

Kill zombies with annoying smileys LOL OMG LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Update of the first round of the Square Tournament...

Wow. As we all know, Squares can be a pretty damn exciting games. The moves, the counters, the blocks, the double repeats... it all adds up to an addicting maths lesson.
For those who don't know... you're a fucking moron. Squares is one of the best - nay - THE best games experiance to grace this fair world. Its better than SEX. Hell, its better than FOOD. I have known starving African children to choose a good game of squares above a four course meal. True.
Shit, man. So, yeah, the Annual (I wish it could be more often but, damn, there's only too much awesomeness one man can take before his penis falls off) Squares tournament got kicked off today. Here are the rules:

1: We're playing Swiss Rules Squares. None of those German or... fucking hell... Latvian varieties. I mean, they have their good points (I especially like the way that a twisted-pyramid can be partially alleviated with a rectangle block in German rules) but, really, Swiss Rules is the only one to have properly implemented rules for rectangles and cuboid squares, which are, in my humble opinion, one of the integral parts of a good game of Squares.

2: The tournament is to World Cup standard; that is, a standard bipartate tournament system, with rankage based on a points and tally system.

3: An added rule from last year: backward maneuvers and double squares are COMPLETELY FORBIDDEN. We all know what happened last year after a certain someone *looks sternly in the direction of Joe* tried to double a pyramid square, and ended up ruining a three hour long game. Shit, man, the rubric infringements were just abysmal.

4: Each player has the following apparatus: Pen/writing implement, a Squareman's glove, A Radian-enabled calculator and a copy of 'My Life,' by Ivanavich Lobechevsky, which features the most widely used and successful squares plays, including the legendary Scotsman's Groin, which only 32 players worldwide have ever been able to successfully pull off.

5: The Squaresman High Inquisitor shall be chosen using a Mackenzie sorting tally system before each game. His decision is final.

6: The game will go on for as long as it needs to, but will end when the bell goes.

Well, now alll those rules are over, lets get on with the really juicy stuff... here's the ending pitch (edited to remove jarrage-lines) of Heat 1 Pool 1 game, played between ODGG and THWP:



Wow. Well, as you can see, it was a pretty damn intensive game. THWP started off strongly with a series of mediumly placed defensive squares, consistant with the playing style of the school of Balthazar. This was obviously countered by the sharp shock tactics of ODGG, who was obviously trying to teache THWP out of his defensive position before he could properly create a good castling position. After opening up the boat a little with a few larger squares, ODGG made a few tactical errors, leaving the boat open for THWP's series of devastating pyramid moves. ODGG managed to pull it back in spectacular style with a brilliant stairway to heaven move (see the western side of the board). This was countered with a deadly killday flashback by THWP, who then went on to pepper the board with Cordelian Back-Squares. The game finished just as it was reaching epic status; ODGG had just managed a massive cube-combo that might have actually reversed the game. But as it turned out, these were the final scores:

THWP:
7 cuboid points
2 relax points
19 posted points
3 stairway points

ODGG:
2 cuboid points
81 circle points
3 cube combos
9 draft points
13.45 posted points

This works out as two cubits each, therefore: A DRAW

So, yeah. Squares RULES. As do I.

A billion Zombies murdered with a double cuboid combination.

In honour of lame advertising personalities

There aren't enough lame tv advertising personalities nowadays. I remember the good old days, when all I had to do would be to turn on the TV and the AOL bitch or Ronald Mcdonald would pop out and tell me to eat hamburgers or use aol, or do both at the same time (which, if you're dull enough to be reading this, you might be doing, you fat computer-nerd cunts). But for a while it seemed that only Harold from the Natwest adverts was keeping the piss poor advertising personalities in business.

It was a dark time. It was a time of death. Of destruction, of despair. The world cried out for a hero... and Barry Scott came. He arrived, and he sorted that shit out with one squirt of his Cillit Bang.
BANG! And the dirt is gone.

Barry is a manly man. Actually, scratch that. Barry is a Manly Man. With capital fuckin' ms. He strides into the advert with a cheeky grin. "Hi, I'm Barry Scott!" he cries exuberantly, as though we would have actually heard of him. Who is Barry Scott? Nobody knows. He doesn't care. He's Barry Scott. The Manly Man of Mystery.

As soon as Barry Bursts into the scene with his Cillit Bang, we notice one thing: His sleeves are rolled up. This is a man who likes to get the fucking job done, we tell ourselves. His hairy, Manly arms are probably covered with Manly Muscles and tatoos of naked women and wisecracking leprechauns, and a deep tan from the three months he spent:
a: Fishing in the middle of the Mediterranean I KNOW I CAN'T SPELL IT
b: Cutting down trees in Canada
c: Building a boxing stadium in Italy, then competing every night, winning, then going straight back to work without even a wink of sleep. He is that Manly.

And boy, is Barry (see, even his name has a sort of manly appeal, the way you SPIT it out of your mouth like a bullet just caught between your teeth, or a piece of ear you've just bitten off Lennox Lewis's FACE) good at his job. The way he just BUSTS through that dirt... or calcium... or GROUND IN DIRT!!!!! ... with the minimum of ease. And his knowledge of science.

"Limescale is just calcium... that's ground on."

No truer words were ever said. Now if that isn't the best damn scientific explanation I've ever heard, you can slap my belly and call me a Welshman.
NB: I am not Welsh.
But with a scientific knowledge like that, Barry has to be AT THE LEAST, a scientist of some sort. I can imagine him now, solving world hunger in a laboratory he made himself with his own two hands out of wood he cut down himself using an axe made out of metal he mined all by himself, then building a wardrobe from scratch JUST COS HE FELT LIKE IT, then playing a fifteen hour long air guitar solo with his band, "Barry and the Manliest Men in Memphis". The title isn't ironic, by the way. It's an honest desciption given to them by the Government, who decided that too much manliness in one band wihtout a proper warning is just DANGEROUS, and anyway, everyone knows that Memphis is where the Manliest Men around (Oli Gill, That guy from the Monkees with the hat, Ash from Evil Dead, Jean Reno, Gary Oldman, Captain Scarlet etc) converge for the average manly men competition, in which they practise bench pressing cows and compare pecs, before arm wrestling for FIFTEEN SOLID HOURS while smoking HUGE cigars, making love to many beautiful women and giving themselves tatoos saying things like "Manly", and "Jesus was here but its too damn Manly for his pussy self," using only rusty pen-knives and the ink from endangered squid, which they have to go down and find themselves WITHOUT air tanks (oxygen is for pussies), beat the living shit out of, then steal the ink of, all the while being attacked by venemous sea snakes, monsters of the deep and Luc Besson, begging Reno to come back for one more fling; having given themselves the tatoo, they then have to bake it into their skin by ironing their own arms using... an IRON... but as they are so damn manly, they don't touch domestic implements, but instead tell their beautiful girlfriends to do it for them.

Barry Scott is THAT manly, and god bless him too.

Wew.

Cilit Bang: BANG! and the zombies are gone.