Danger: This post may contain letters, arranged in order to form words and sentences

Danger signs.
Don't you just love them?
I do. I really love danger signs, telling me to not go near this, not to climb on that, not to touch that, danger of death this, alligators that, deer crossing, potentially dangerous, contains battery acid, men working above, poison, hidden cable, high voltage, flammable, 480 volts, asbestos, noise, hard hat area, gas, danger of suffocation, do not feed the birds... and my personal favourite, sudden drop.

Why Sudden Drop? Whats so good about it? Well, threefold. Firstly, they know that there's a sudden drop, but instead of, you know, putting a barrier up and thus ruining the fun of the danger, they've just stuck a sign up telling people that the floor might just disappear at any point, sending them plummeting to their deaths. The 'sudden drop' sign is like the 'man eating tigers around here' sign; its obviously been put up by someone who just can't be arsed to do the job properly. And I respect that. There's too much mollycoddling of the public nowadays for us to not respect the guy who goes 'fuck the public, if they can't see the drop and they ignore the sign they can bloody well fall to their deaths. Not my problem'.

Secondly, the words 'sudden drop'. They just remind me of trapdoors. ie Trapdoors in villain's lairs a la James Bond. It is one of my wishes that I could just create trapdoors under people just using my mind. I can just imagine it. I'm walking along the road in my happy way when OH NO some pikeys come and ask for my mobile. Well, not ask, demand. I just look at them and BAM the road comes away under then and down they fall. Where do they end up? Nobody knows, but a half-eaten Burberry hat would be found three weeks later in the middle of a poisonous killer flesh-eating ants nest in Brazil. So, great.

Thirdly, the sign itself. You don't see too many 'sudden drop' signs about nowadays, and so seeing one is a rare oppurtunity, and photos must be taken. There is one such masterpiece outside the Tate Modern, and I love it to bits:



Fucking brilliant. Seriously. The drop was so sudden, the guy's head fell off. And you can really SEE the panic that going through this guy's brain. The slow sensation of 'ohh, shit' that we all get after falling off a square platform. Also, brilliantly, they haven't shown the BOTTOM of the drop, so he could very easily be falling to his death. And all because he ignored a simple safety sign. For SHAME.

Actually, that makes me ponder. Why do all safety signs show people blatantly disregarding the message that they're trying to purport? For example, Danger Alligator signs have a guy poking the alligator in the eye. Strong Acid has somebody burning a huge bloody hole through his hand, Flammable Liquids has A FIRE, and, my personal favourite, sudden drop has somebody falling to a painful, short, and messy death. All because they ignored the signs. In my humble opinion, this is NOT a good example to set to the younger and more impressionable generation, who may be inclined to think that the signs show that which they are SUPPOSED to do, not SUPPOSED to NOT do. See how confusing it is?

Therefore, in my opinion, the 'danger acid' sign should show somebody with goggles carefully placing the glass into a cupboard, then leaping out of the way in case it suddenly explodes. The 'danger alligators' one should have somebody dynamiting an alligator, from afar, perhaps with a rocket launcher or grenade lobbing device. Flammable should have something not on fire, and as for sudden drop... somebody standing well away from the drop. In fact, you shouldn't be able to see the drop, they are that safely away from it.

But, I still don't think there are enough safety signs about. I was walking through Kingston yesterday, chewing gum, when I bit my tongue. Really badly. It was PAINFUL. But was there a sign saying 'Danger- Do not walk and chew gum'? Was there HECK! I could have bitten half my tongue off. And then I ate some spicy food, and it made my tongue wound sting a bit. Was there a sign saying 'Danger- Spicy food can make a tongue wound sting'? NO THERE WASN'T! There should be a sign for EVERY conceivable event. And they should be liberally sprinkled everywhere, like cocaine on Kris's FACE. It's the only way that the children can be made safe. And then the older and more mature of us (ie me) can get on with happily ignoring them as we always have and always will.

Case in point: After the spicy food, I decided that a bit of gymnastics was in order, and I decided to run across a bunch of bike racks. In the dark. While tweaked on spicy Japanese food. Needless to say, I fell off. Well, I didn't fall, I sort of mis-timed my stride and slipped off. Now, it could have been much worse. I could have landed full body weight on my testicles and, like, popped one. I just realised that I made every male reading this wince and feel his own balls. As it happened, I managed to bruise the TOP of my leg. Don't ask me how, I don't know myself. But was there a sign saying 'Do not leap across these hard slippery metal bars'? NO. There wasn't. I mean, if there had been a sign, I still would have jumped on them. But at least it would have been nice to be warned that high speed nigh bike-rack running was dangerous.

Hmm. I finish with what is, in my opinion, the best bloody danger sign ever. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the French Airport fire warning sign:



Utter class. Say what you like about the French; they make wicked fucking fire warning signs. It must have been the coffee, but we had a twenty minute laughing fit when we first saw this baby. If anybody can come up with some good captions for it, please post a comment. Fucking brilliant.

Vote for me for a danger sign on every pavestone!

OH EM GEE

OH EM FUCKING GEE
OMG
OMG
OMG
OMG
OH. EM. GEE.

Ok, calm down. Just calm. Breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel the force of your feet on the floor. Know the sensations of your breath. Calm.

I JUST CAN'T DO IT, DAMNIT! Its just too... damn exciting. Do you know that feeling you get when you pull off something so BRILLIANT, so utterly unbelievable, that you just can't control it? Its like when you realise at the end of an exam that -yes- you could do every question and -yes- there weren't any questions about transformers, possibly the most shit topic on GCSE physics. Or in the Spanish oral, when you realise that it's actually being conducted in English. That feeling. Greatness in a bottle. Goodness on a Stick. Jesus in a... cage.
Just LOOK what I discovered in my Email inbox the other day:



I have been CHOSEN to recieve Free Gas for a Year. You hear that? Chosen. It wasn't a random thing. It wasn't them just mass emailing everyone. I was CHOSEN. I can just imagine the nice people at Rewards Venue just sitting back, around their fancy table. "Right, we have all this free gas... we need to give it to someone." "But who? We can't just give it to ANYONE." "I know, what about this guy?" *Motions at framed picture of me in the centre of the room*. "Oh YEAH, a 16 year old non-driver who doesn't even live in the same country!" "PERFECT!" "Well done Bob, have a promotion."

No, wait. Actually, I bet they just sent a diviner out with a stick. He waved it around, and eventually it led him to the person whom God deemed worthy. I was wondering why an old man with a twig was following me around London the other day. I just thought that he was after my gullyhole, and ran away. But actually, he wasn't a pervert. He was a Reward Venue Prize Diviner, discovering the most worthy person to recieve the year's free gas. $150 a month in pure gas!

I wonder what sort of gas it is. Chlorine gas, perhaps. Or maybe some Mustard gas... then I can go out and eviscerate some rabbits. Just imagine it. A little bunny rabbit hopping gayly (meaning happy in this case, this is a hetero bunny) through Bushy Park, when suddenly, BLAM. I appear on the horizon, gas masked, covered in canisters (stuffed full with $150 worth of compressed mustard gas). The bunny tries to run, but its too late. I raise my Gas-Grenade Launcher, aim, then fire a rocket gas propelled explosive cannister with BRUTAL force towards the rabbit. KA-SPLAT. The cannister hits Peter Rabbit, then melts him and takes out a 600 square meter patch of parkland. Hmm. Maybe its just gas for the car. Perhaps the picture is a clue. Don't you you LOVE how they've captured my very essence, with that picture of a middle aged brunette woman next to her shiny white car? I would never have a white car. In fact, after the rabbits, people with white cars would be my next target. I would probably have to wait for next month to go white-car lady hunting, though.

Doesn't it look like her hand has sort of melted into the car a bit? And what exactly is she looking at? Her eyeline seems to point towards her checking out the 'o' on 'chosen'. Perhaps she, too, was chosen by the almighty Rewards Venue to get the free gas. Perhaps she's looking upwards towards God, asking for a blessing for the gas that she is about to recieve in her lame white car.

But I have to admit, I had my doubts at first. Can you believe, I ACTUALLY had the nerve to think that it might have been junk mail? 'Spam'. After all, I get junk mail ads all the time; penis enlargement, anything from MSN, oil prices, free picture of lesbians-riding-latex-bunny mask-wearing-donkey-blowing-midget-urine-servants (no thanks, I get quite enough unbridled sex when Mike and Kris are around). All stuff I don't need. But on the other hand, I did apparently win a washer/dryer combo the other day. Pretty spiffy, I thought. Unfortunately, I failed to pick up on this offer, after falling down five flights of stairs and breaking every bone in my body. I'm ok now, though.

But, I thought that this particular email was spam, would you believe it? And I was about to delete it too. But THANK GOD I looked just that little bit closer, and saw the anti-spam picture in the corner. Well, that set my beating heart at rest. It wasn't spam- there was a little sign telling me so. Thank GOD for that.

So now all I need to do is contact the nice people at Rewards Venue to get my gas. Who knows, perhaps I'll be given a free car too. I'll just keep watching my inbox.

Vote for me - free childcare for fit teenage mothers. FIT teenage mothers, mind you. No munters.

Vote for me!

I am bored of all this Election (hahahha, election is like erection) rubbish. Especially when there is nobody worth voting for.

Tony Blair? Too smiley.
Micheal Mandalson? Not a politician.
Uh, that guy with the face? Too much face.
Gordon Brown? Too much of being the only other political name I can think of to vote for.
Micheal Manson? Not even a politician.

Wow, my knowledge of politics is actually AWFUL. I actually can only name two politicians. Two living politicians. And Maggie Thatcher. But I'm fully of the opinion that Maggie has been dead for years, but it's just the power of her lip thats keeping her moving. Soon, she'll just start to rot and things will break off. She'll be doing a dinner or something and, mid speech, her skin will crisp off. Then she'll catch fire and burn to the ground. So I won't vote for her. Actually, I won't vote for anyone. Not because of any particular apathy. I'm too young, to be honest. But NEXT election, when we're all driving around in flying hoverbikecardonkeys and voting by using mind powers, I'll be using my democratic right to full devastating effect.

If I could vote for anyone, I'd vote for this guy:



Winston Churchill. What a guy. You look at Churchill and you think, here's a motherfucker who can GET the JOB done. Can you imagine anybody else taking down Hitler and his Nazi's? I think not. Hell, even Maggie couldn't take down those wankers. Its all Winston, tommygun in one hand, half smoked cigar sticking out the corner of his mouth, casually reloading then taking down the ranks of the Third Reich. You know that game Escape from Castle Wolfenstein? You were playing as Winston the entire time. And the SPEECHES! Seriously, that man could talk. Despite sounding like Marlon Brando in the Godfather, he was good enough to have a car insurance company named after him. Can you imagine a car insurance thing called Tony? No. You can't. Cos that would be shit.

Actually, to be honest, if I could vote for ANYONE, I'd vote for this guy:

Me.

Seriously, I would be WICKED as King of England. I'd have my own political party. Except it wouldn't be a 'party', it'd be a 'partay'. Or at least, pronounced like that. And nobody would get fired for having affairs with secretaries and abusing governmental powers under MY regime. Oh no. In fact, having affairs with secretaries and abusing governmental powers would actually be a requisite of my reign. Any politicians (I saw 'politicians', I actually mean 'hive kings') who fail to have enough affairs or fail to embezzel enough money will be burnt at the stake. Did I mention that arbitrary stake-burnings are brought back under my rule? A charming British Tradition that just hasn't been given enough lee-way these days.

Here will be my policies on several difficult topics that have affected the policitians of today:

Council tax: Council tax? Council tax? We'll have no council tax here! Back in my day we just lived in huts that we made ourselves out of the trees of the New Forest, and that's what all those whingeing wusses are gonna get. Any complaints, go and talk to my head of stake-burnings, John Von Burny-McGee.

Crime: Four words: Justice with a shotgun. Armed robbery? Shotgun. Murder? Shotgun. Child molestation? Shotgun. In the groin. Embezzlement? Shotgun. Little old lady complaining about the amount of corpses outside the court-room? Shotgun. Shotgun salesman? Shotgun. Shotguns for all! When I say that, I do not mean that shotguns are handed out willy-nilly. No, they are unloaded at point blank range.

Immigration: Let 'em all in. In... TO THE SUGAR MINES! It doesn't matter that we don't have any sugar mines in Britain... they can BUILD SOME! MWahahahaha. I'm gonna usher in a magical new world of slavery to Britain.

Freedom of speech: The following books will not be burnt:

The Chainsaw Zombie annual
Chainsaw Zombie and me - the blogging way
The Chainsaw Zombie Story (with a foreword by Tim Henman)
One zombie and his chainsaw - a tale of heroism

Everything else, on the pile.

And now, to reveal the name of my partay. I thought of 'the Zombie party', but we already have several of those (Ooooh, political humour, don't I just RULE). Then 'the Chainsaw party'. This was followed by 'the Monster party', 'the ? party', 'the ytrap party' and finally 'the other party'. But then it hit me.



Vote for us or get sent to the sugar mines. Or the stake. Or both.

Vote for me or go to the sugar moones!

Damn, I'm bored

I'm so bored that I've gone through everyone else's blogs and have rated them out of 5. I'm not going to url them. You already know the adresses, or you're a pedophile who wandered in from Neverland. Whatever case, fuck you, you're typing it out yourself.

Abi: A bit trippy. A bit dreary. Hasn't been updated in a week. Boring. But on the other hand, she mentioned me. So, good. 3/5 (www.kinderatheart.blogspot.com)
Bibby: Why do I even have this any more? Joe is unable to keep a simple thing like a blog going for more than a few inane posts about music. TYPING OUT LYRICS IS NOT COOL. ITS STUPID. Its topped off by another inane comment by the incredible inanegirl. 0/5 (www.slappybass.blogspot.com)
Cassandra: Well it used to be good. But then she stopped updating it three days ago, leaving possibly the most depressing blog known to mankind. Seriously, 'my friend started cutting herself' is way up there with 'my puppy died' and 'I have skin cancer'. Nice one, babe. But the spelling, punctuation and grammar is impeccable. 2/4 (www.nearly-there.blogspot.com)
Fati: Well, at least it's cheery. And it gets updated often. And I sometimes get mentioned. No real problems. 4/5. (www.littlelandofnowhere.blogspot.com)
Ogg: Yeah. His blog usually has two flavours: "I hate STEVE but I really don't I'm just joking cos I love you babe kiss kiss kiss" and badly imitating mine. No, wait, there's also some really bad poetry and a few orgasms over basketball. Gimp. But the black thing that goin' down is quite cool. No, wait, it isn't. Rarely updated. Piss poor. 2/5 (www.cassieisfit.blogspot.com)
Roxxxxy: A pink place full of discussion of things that have already happened. If you aren't Roxy or somebody who follows her around all day with a camera, you won't have a fucking clue what she's going on about all the time. So, yeah. But I have a post about me somewhere. Wicked. 3/5. (www.middle-of-everywhere.blogspot.com)
Steven: Full of bitchy ranty comments against parents, the Steve sounds like she's on a permanent Niagra Falls of a period ALL THE TIME. She makes the stupid assumption that everybody loves her life. Unfortunately, Oli is here, so she always has at least one reader. But WAIT A SECOND... she also has a few anonymous contributers who whinge at her for posting names on the blog. Good. 2/5 (www.stevenberry.blogspot.com)
Paul: Shit. Hasn't been updated since the beginning of time, and that was by ME. But if you want, there's a story on there. Might be good, might be shit, I dunno, I couldn't be bothered to read it. What the hell is up with the name? 0/5. (www.kravmagaisnotgodsidea.blogspot.com)
Mike: Its a damn MSN one. For shame. I dunno, its written in by Kris, so there is a fair amount of inaneness. And they write 'don't do drugs' every other sentence. I don't get it. 2/5 (http://spaces.msn.com/members/whackeryounis/)
Marios: Just in here for completeness's sake. I'm not even gonna look at it, but there's lots of girlish chit-chat. AND HE USES SMILEYS. SMILEYS? What kind of fuckwit uses smileys? Look :). What is that? A face? No its not, its a colon next to a closed bracket. Whats this? :(. Comma next to open bracket. Also, it's Marios doing 'oh God I haven't done any work today and oh God I'm failing my exams!' Man I'm a bitch today. Sorry Marios. Still, 1/5 (http://spaces.msn.com/members/supermario89/)
Oli G: I love this blog. He never updates it, but when he does, you know you're in for a treat. Or a headache. Scroll down a bit to find one of his fabled 'rants'. And I don't mean like a wussy whinge. Its a full on drunken explosion of wit. Here's a quote:

hay look he just did his ONLY fucking move on sum guy, GOD get sum fuking…I dno, POINT..FULLNESS to the bloody thing, rite I am gna find out wat the wrestlers name is, brb GOLDBERGGGGGGG I REMEMBER!! BILL GOLDBERG, he lost only 2matches in his entire WWE wrestling career, both to the same guy HHH o im so cool I remember this bullshit, hang on lemme find a pic of MR"I hav huge 24pack and no penis muah muah muah"WHITE

Seriously. 6/5, man. Six out of five.
Gee-Zee: The 'Gee looks like Zarembaaaa' blog, started by the Gillster and I. Alone and unloved, it will die soon. Although, there is a picture of the twins...2/5 (www.gee-zee.blogspot.com)

This was a waste of time. Oh well.

I would like a moog of tea

Vagina schmagina...

I just want to be serious for a second.

...

Ok, that was a good second.
Right. Now I want to be serious for the rest of the post, or until I lose interest in being serious and revert back to purile sillyness. I'm guessing that this'll take a couple of seconds.
But here's the point that I want to get across:
There is altogether too much discussion of vaginas in school nowadays.
Everywhere I go, it's all I hear. What colour so and so's is, how many fingers you managed to fit into whatsername's, the size, shape, and number of cockroaches that fell out of Steve's... stop it. Vaginas are not interesting. In fact, vaginas are possibly on the other side of interesting. Vaginas are distasteful. Seriously. On the sexual genitalia ranks (Vagina, Penis, and in the case of a certain girlfriend of Ogg, horned tentacle), the vagina is RIGHT at the bottom. Seriously, the vagina is such a loser in the genitalia competition, the Salvation Army have started VaginAid, a special charity for vaginas that gives out free sex changes.

But still, feminists go on about it like its a good thing. No its not. Just, no. You're an idiot. But, in order to cement my reputation as the most blatantly gay straight guy on the planet, I'm still going to go on what will probably be a highly offensive, mysoginistic, partially homosexual post that will no doubt get:

a: no comments at all
b: lots of comments from pissed off lesbians

So, yeah:

Vaginas v Penii; Battle of the Sex Organs

Right. Uh, ok..

Appearance
Right. I led a very secluded childhood; I did not see much porn as a pre-teen. If only I'd met Micheal Jackson. I mean, we didn't even get the fucking internet until three or so years ago. So, basically, one of my first sightings of a REAL vagina (ie, one that I hadn't come out of) was at The Manliest Man around's house, watching low quality porn on his laptop. And seriously, I thought something was gonna fall out. Christ, bitches, your vaginas look like bloody flesh-wounds. It's like somebody had a penis, but then jerked off so bloody hard it got ripped out, leaving a bleeding wound.
On the other hand, I probably saw my first penis just after seeing my own belly-button for the first time. And man. Although it was 12 inches long (don't worry, it's grown a bit now) I wasn't made at all nauseous by my penis. And why should I? Penii are fine. I mean, I wouldn't wanna look at anybody else's, but hey it's better than a flesh wound.

Stuff that comes out of them
Penis: urine and semen. Thats IT. Barring an STI, that is all that's ever coming out of this baby. No matter how hard you try. Both perfectly harmless bodily things. I repeat: THAT IS IT. Urine and semen. FINITO.
Vagina: urine, semen (come on, I'm sure it oozes out after the penis is done), BLOOD, TISSUE MATTER, weird fishy stuff, lots of random fluids. But please, can I just direct your attention to: BLOOD. FUCKING BLOOD? I mean, christ. If I woke up and I started bleeding out of my genitalia, I would scream. Christ, I'd probably slam the fucker in the freezer. How can you even pretend to claim that vagina is superior, when the inside of it starts to dribble out every full moon? My God.

In terms of The Lord of the Rings places
Penis: The mighty tower of Isengard, full of magic and enchantedness, rearing up above a huge forest. Every now and again, a white man appears on the end and fires magical bolts about. Aha, you can see that I've thought this baby through.
Vagina: Mines of Moria. A dark, dank, dripping place, in a deep forest (with a scary octopus thing) full of the following:

• Pools of water


• Slime


• Death


• Bottomless pits


• Shit (I refuse to believe that there isn't a connecting tube in there somewhere)


• Other monsters far too hideous to discuss


• Hobbits

Dude. I cannot believe I just described genitalia in terms of Lord of the Rings. I don't even like Lord of the Rings that much. I could do Star Wars too. Penii are light-sabres, vaginas are that big hole in the desert in the last one that Jabba threw his victims into. I don't even like Star-Wars either.

Cleanliness
Penis: Three seconds in the shower. More if you want to be extra clean. That's all you need.
Vagina: I don't know, but I hope it takes you several hours and a team of trained professionals wearing nuclear radiation suits to clean 'em out. Seriously, with the amount of fluids knocking around down there and the fact that YOU ARE DECOMPOSING, it wouldn't surprise me if there was enough bacteria in there to keep Al-Quaiida supplied for a whole year. Fuck, I wouldn't bat an eyelid if maggots had a nice thing going down there. Ugh.
And how can anyone argue with me? There are adverts for thrush cream on TV every damn second. Are there adverts for penis wart removal kits (soldering iron)? No. Why? Because penii are easy to clean. Thrush cream, pah. And the adverts always act like thrush is a normal thing. A NORMAL THING? You have YEAST GROWING IN YOUR BODY. Hell, pour some milk, crack a few eggs and stick some butter down there, and you've got some vagina shaped rolls. Vaginabread. I'd buy it. Actually, no I wouldn't. I bet it tastes like SHIT. And blood. And fish.

Fun
Look, if you own a penis and fancy a bit of solo fun and you own at least one hand and long enough arms (fun fact: Dwarves don't. Poor bastards. Thats probably why they liked Snow White so much, eh eh?) then you're in business. But if you have a VAGINA, you probably need to use A FAKE PENIS. Yes, that's RIGHT. Vaginas NEED penii, but penii really don't NEED vaginas. Loooosers. And at the end of the day, you're gonna end up bleeding all over the shop anyway. Bloody vaginas. Ew, literally.

Ah, dear. I'm getting kind of bored of insulting female organs. So here are the only two possible reasons that I can think of that vaginas might be superior to penii:

1: If you kick a vagina, it can't possibly hurt as much as being kicked in the balls. I'm sorry, but NO. It is actually impossible to top that for agony. So actually, we just ruined your whingey shit for the 'childbirth' thing. Oh boo hoo, a baby comes out of your vagina? Just try getting kicked in the balls and stop whingeing.
Although, on the other hand, although we do have a weak spot between our legs, you do have two very easily punchable targets on your chests, you vagina owners, so it does even out.

2: Lesbians with vaginas are always much better than gays with penii. I don't know why, but I'd rather watch two vagina ladies have fun than a penis pair. But, duhh... ladies vs men. Manly men (ie me) will always choose to look at ladies. I mean, what do we have penii for if not to use them to look at ladies? Hmm. But on the other hand, real lesbians aren't really ever that fit. Real lesbians are not blonde bombshells with massive boobs. They are usually old grey ladies with beards and massive saggy boobs. They look like Anne Widdecombe. Or the lady who played Victor Meldrew's wife. You just imagined them together, didn't you? Me too... sorry about that.

Lesbians are often a bit podgy. Like Ogg's sister. They also often play hockey. Like Ogg's sister. They also have bizarre haircuts. Like Ogg's sister. I would say that Ogg's sister is a lesbian, except apparently she's not. In fact, she apparently has a very active love life. In fact, I once saw her 'thingfriend' (I won't say boy as I couldn't tell); a tall gangly creature with red, glazed eyes, a face that could curdle all the milk in France and talons instead of hands. It looked sort of like a mixture between Dracula and the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. I think they've broken up now.

Actually, I hope they've broken up, cos Ogg is going out with it now.

ZZZZZZZING.

Moo

If you took this post seriously, you can just fuck off.

I am ill

Owie, owie. Here are my symptoms:

Headache - A real thumper, sonofabitch, wanker, gayarseboobs of a headache. The fact that I'm currently listening to Venus in Firs probably isn't helping things. And neither is the five neurophen I consumed yesterday. I know I probably ODed, but come on, how was I supposed to know that ibruprophen was different to Neurophen? And if they don't want people to eat handfulls of neurophen, why the hell do they make them so sugar-coated and delicious? Pah.
Dizzyness - dude. I stood up suddenly and nearly collapsed on the floor. I'd probably get a headrush from bloody going up an escaletor. A slow one. In and old person's home. And you can just FORGET about rotating in my swivelly chair/focusing on things/writing legibly. Well, ok. My writing is never really legible. In fact, it looks like it was written by a guy with only hooks for hands. Dude, that would rule.
Anger - I was rowing today, as my mother has perfected the method of guilt-tripping out of skiving school, damn her, and Mr F (DUDE) told me that I looked 'uncomfortable, angry, pissed off, with rage welling up inside of me, g'day mate'. Dude, I just realised that that made me sound like Darth Vadar. Cool. And that was on top of the usual anger, discomfort, pissed offness and rage welling that I'm usually like. Sheesh, the swear jar of me in a boat would probably have enough to solve the pension deficit, Mr Blair.

NB: Mr F didn't actually say 'g'day mate', but I'm one of those people who holds the opinion that all australian people should say g'day mate, wear hats with corks on then, wrestle alligators, then have a Fosters and a Barbie. Call me old fasioned, that's what I think.

And it didn't help that Joe and Oli decided to be cullywunts today and repeat 'You're pissed off. Why are you pissed off? Pissed off? Why, you? Blah blah blah, my legs hurt. Stop being pissed off! Lalla, look, he's all pissed off. What a looser,' over and over again. And I wasn't even angry then. I was pretty soonish. And so, as a punishment, I have updated my favourite couple to Miris. And don't pretend it won't happen.
Forgetfulness - (
Stomach cramps - just like a girl on period-skive Except much worse. With less blood. I don't see why you girls whinge so much. I cut my knee today, and did I whinge? No, I didn't. In fact I painted a nice red blob on my knee. Blood art, I'm thinking of calling it.
Loss of appetite - I couldn't face lunch today, so I ate half a malt-loaf. MALT LOAF. It was only when I was a few bites in that I realised that it was about three days past the sell-by date, having resided in a corner of my room for a few days. Well, if anything would wipe out a boy's appetite, that would.

So, a pretty shit bill of health. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL. Oh no.

PSA: If you ever do heavy weights after a four week-holiday from then, and fail to stretch properly before or afterwards, be fully prepared to lose the proper use of your legs and days of agonising pain. In fact, no. If you ever do heavy weights after a four week-holiday from then, and fail to stretch properly before or afterward, just buy a piece of wood and a sledgehammer, and go visit the house of the lady from Misery.



That should pretty much replicate the experience. Except all over the body. Seriously, I woke up on Tuesday and was UNABLE TO MOVE. It took a good five minutes to actually sit up, then a long, painful time to walk down the stairs.
Here's an impression of the pre-weights me walking down the stairs: "La di da, walkin' down the stairs, oh yeahh, walkin' down the stairs, ohh yeah, I'm so happy, I'm going to eat some pears!"

NB: I would never actually sing like that. Thats the sort of bollocks this that Ogg comes up with in music lessons.

And HERE is an impression of post-weights me stepping down the stairs: "Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Sonofabitch. Ow. Ow. Ow. CHRIST. Ow. Owww. This isn't fair."
I left out the weeping. You didn't need to see that. Before getting up and going anywhere, I have to mentally count down to three. Then I just lie there for an hour. And do you know what the MOST UNFAIR THING IS? While I'm lying there, my legs get EVEN MORE SORE. And it's not just my legs that CANE, to use the modern slang of the day. My arms are even worse. Seriously, the sound of me picking up my bag af the end of our many FASCINATING lessons would make Pope Benedict 16th wince, and he's been busily sacrifing virgins to Amun-Ra ever since he theatened the conclave with women and alcohol.

I have literally been begging people to pick high up things for me. It is so unfun, being this wounded. I mean, usually being ill is FUN. You just get to wander around the house all day, dossing. But my legs are so painful, I am unable to wander. And as for dossing? Oh my. This body is a doss-free zone. I haven't had a good doss for two solid nights. The dossterbation builds up. I'll need to doss pretty soon, before I start dossing at school. And that would just be MESSY.
And before you americans get the wrong ideas in your head, here's the dictionary's definition of doss:

DOSS: (noun) An easy task or period of time.
(verb) To slack off.
(Orig. UK/ Ireland.)

See? It means 'slack off'. And the Irish invented it, and we all know how good they are at slacking off. I rest my case.

My mooscles hurt.

If your parents both ran the London Marathon today, raise your hands...

So, just me then, eh?
I can't remember their times, but neither of them were

a: Escorted off in an ambulance
b: Escorted off by the police
c: Brutally gang-raped by men wearing rabbit hats
d: Wearing silly costumes

... so I was quite happy. And I spent the day hanging with my homie (for I, too, am a black man) the Oggmeister junior. Why junior? I don't know. We spent the day happily looking for Niketown (not Adidashamlet, which was a bit shittum looking), insulting my dress sense (look, just because my trainers have a silly amount of holes in them whereas yours are moulded of liquid titanium doesn't make me socially repellent) and dragging my little brother around. Also, we saw Abi, and Ogg was flirting madly. Which was bad. BAD OGG, BAD. SIT. Also revealed was the fact that he probably has a lot of x-rated pictures on his phone, which he didn't want to show us. However, I did manage to bluetooth-hack him (with my hacking skillz) and get one elusive picture. Surprise, surprise, it was one of Steve's tits:



For shame. For shaaaaame. No, but seriously, Steve, I hate you. You turned my lovely angry self injuring compass-in-arm jackass fiend Oggly into a happy, well balanced member of society. BOOO. He is now all smiley and IT IS YOUR FAULT, you hinged bitch.

But on the other hand, the Stoli (haha) relationship is pretty much the only one that I can stand amongst my friends. The Kroe relationship is a bit creepy for me; bordering as it does on peadophilia (yes, I know she's older than you, but Kris has the emotional age of a six year old), The Emmike one hasn't materialised and probably won't until Emma gives birth to her 6th black child, the Emmoli relationship ended in tears, The Emmaul relationship was creepy to the point of bunny-boiling, the Emomas relationship never even occurred, but I'm just adding it to this list to emphasise the vast number of 'em-' entries, the Poxy relationship will probably end in heartbreak, and as for the Tassie relationship, we have the chemistry of a dead golfish. In a fishtank. A frozen one. In antarctica. Buried under 5 tonnes of ice. In the middle of an ice cave. On a cold day.

But at least the Stoli relationship ticks the correct boxes in the 'not annoying Thomas that much' form:

1: They seem to actually have conversations, instead of looking at each other, giggling, then making out.
2: They don't make out very much when I'm around.
3: They don't tell me about it. Well, Oli did once, and I ferociously beat him with a length of garden hose for at least twenty minutes. Steve swallows apparently. Whoops, this is a public blog. This girl (www.stevenberry.blogspot.com) swallows. Lets all go to her blog and heckle her about it. Swallows what, though? I hope he meant ice-cream. NO, NOT ICE CREAM! Yeugh.
4: I'm allowed to sit and insult the female part of the relationship in front of the male for hours on end, then finish off by creating insulting pictures of her. Which is what I'm about to do soonish.
5: I can talk to both members of the reltionship AND THEY WON'T BRING THE OTHER MEMBER UP WITHOUT PRIOR INVITATIONAL MENTION. Thank GOD.

Then that got me thinking. What would happen if Steve and Oli, like, MATED? NO I DON'T MEAN THE ACTUAL BIOLOGY. Christ, are you people trying to kill me? I mean, what would the babies look like?
Then I saw the photoshop icon in the corner of my screen. Looking so inviting... so tempting... Screw it, I like Photoshop.
One problem. I didn't have a picture of Steve. Ah well, I just typed 'Steve' into Google and picked the first picture that popped up. They look sort of the same.

Aplogies to all those involved in this.



Hahhahahhaha. I'm so sorry for the parents of that baby, I have totally fucked their son/daughter/whatever up. Oh christ. And I hope that Steve Castor, a reasearch geologist whose specialities include geologic mapping, igneous petrology, mine geology, mineral exploration and ore petrology, never sets eyes on this page. Boy, he might get angry and lock me in a cave. Or a mine.

Hmm.

My parents ran a MOOrathon!

I got an odd phone call today.

I was doing my Oli G manly man exercise tape, and had just done my 46th sit up, when the phone rang. Odd, I thought.

Phone: Ring ring
Me: Hello?
Lady: Hello. This is Ingrid Newkirk, co-founder of PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, the largest coolition for the protection of animals on the Earth for the past twenty-five years.
Me: Oh, hello.
Ingrid Newkirk: My fellow patriots at PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, and I are forming an internet protest against your blog, you evil murderer. It's full of pictures of people burning, hammering and KILLING small animals. This is just UNACCEPTABLE. Do you know that it even says at one point that 'dropkicking cats is fun'?
Silence, broken only slightly by a faint sound that might be me sniggering.
Ingrid Newkirk: We here at PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, find this sort of thing appalling, degrading, and morally bankrupt. What if somebody sees this blog and actually decides to copy you? Then you'd be a murderer! We here at PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, need you to undestand that violence against animals is NOT FUNNY.
Me: Yes it is.
Ingrid Newkirk: Oh. I see your point. Well, I guess you're right. I'll leave now and stop wasting your time. Goodbye.
Me: Bye.

I wish. Dear me, PETA are irritating. Why won't they see that nobody likes them, and just piss off? They've turned something inherently cool as saving super drug-monkeys from evil scientists into a giant whingey sodden tissue of mucus and pent up energy. They've decided that the best way to get the entire world to change a billion years worth of evolutionary programming is to dress up in silly costumes and annoy people senslessly.

And what is it with the name? PETA? I don't even know how to pronounce it... it's either PETA like Peter (the name) or PETA like petter (the person who pets). Personally, I prefer it like Peter, because Peter is another name for penis, and I have a full and frank belief that PETA are a bunch of penii.

And anyway, if its People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, surely it should be PFTETOA. What's wrong with that? Well, other than it sounds sort of like a silent fart. At least all the letters are included now, which they weren't before in the previous PFTETOA name version. What's wrong, you pricks, don't you want the small letters? You word-Nazi's. I bet you don't like black words either. You sicken me.

And the SLOGANS you people throw about. Just a quick visit of www.peta.org (see, its a .org adress, not even a real bloody website) reveals a HOST of fascinating slogans to make us reconsider eating delicious tasty animals. For example:

Animals are people too!
Interesting analogy. ANIMALS are PEOPLE too. Well, so that means, if I eat animals, I'm eating people. MY GOD, I should stop this NOW. Oh, wait. I just spotted one tiny loophole in your plan there, PETA: Animals are not people. Animals are animals. The two words are COMPLETELY DIFFERENT. In fact, I'm pretty sure that the definition of 'animal' is 'not a person'. So basically, you've just altered the laws of English. And anyway, in what way are animals 'people'? Give me a list of reasons, that don't use hippy rubbish like 'uh, animals have souls' and 'uh, animals are... cute?'.

Fish are friends, not food!
Dictionary defninition of 'friend':

Friend (n)
1: A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.
2: A person whom one knows; an acquaintance.
3: One who supports, sympathizes with, or patronizes a group, cause, or movement: friends of the clean air movement.
4: Friend A member of the Society of Friends; a Quaker.

Right. All those who know, like, and trust a fish, raise your hands. Even as an acquaintance? You don't even have to know this particular fish very well... perhaps the fish is allied with you? Still nobody? Ok, anybody in the Clean air movement here? Now I SWEAR I saw a fish marching in your parade just the other day. No? Any Quakers in the croud? Any fish in the Quakers? Really? There aren't? Nobody who looks like this:



Well, good for you, keeping the standards up. And keep making the porrige.
So, in conclusion, I have just categorically proved that fish are, indeed, not friends. Therefore, they are food. Delicious, delicious food.

Chris P. Carrot says: Eat your veggies, not your friends!
This placard was being held by a giant smiling carrot. I do not lie. So, uh, that's confusing. If this carrot guy is so friendly, surely that makes him a 'friend'. Regarding the dictionary definition of friends, it does seem that Chris is supporting the PETA cause, it would make him a 'friend' of PETA, and therefore not edible. But... he tell us to eat our vegetables! It's one of those crazy crazy logic problems that makes smart people like me frown in an irritated manner, and simple people like Kris explode. So, I've come to the simple conclusion that Chris is my friend, and I can eat him. Therefore, cows, who aren't my friend, are even more deliciously edible. Mmmm, beef.

And the ever popular Meat is murder
Meat is tasty. Murder is not. Therefore, murder is not tasty. Simple mathematics.

... Aaaaaaaaaaaaand now I've lost interest. NO WAIT. Look what I just found on www.peta.com:

Web sites that either depict or suggest cruelty to animals are typically created by people who feel threatened by animal rights or who simply want to get attention. Most of these sites are intended to be offensive "jokes" and use fake, deceptive images. The owners of these malicious Web sites know that compassionate people will be upset and tell their friends about the site, bringing more visitors to it and making it a more valuable space for advertising.

MWAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA. I am so malicious. Give me attention.

Nuts to this.

I am MOOLICIOUS!

My motto...

Ok, I AM DONE WITH PHOTOSHOP FOR THE WHILE. Wicked.

A cow-weapon? Moonigun.

Fat people are annoying

They just annoy me. Bloody fatsos.
Firstly, they take up valuable space, which could be better filled with statues to me.
Secondly, they eat all our food and sit on all our pets/children.
Thirdly, they act like it's 'ok' to be fat. IT ISN'T OK TO BE FAT. YOU ARE NOT CURVACIOUS AND SEXY AND APPEALIING. YOU ARE FAT AND UGLY AND ARE FORCING ME TO TYPE IN CAPITALS. And stop saying that you are 'real women'. So what are thin people... fake? Are we made of carboard? Pwaharh.
Also, all the time they don't spend going on about how happy they are that they're fat, they whinge about how all the thin people are anorexic nazi fasion obessed bigots. Yeah, well I'm sure that thin people look anorexic compared to you, lardo. It's just the laws of comparison. Hell, green probably looks red when compared to BLACK.

Being the mean bastard I am, I immediately decided to check out the Weightwatchers Website, with the sole intention of making fun of the lardos who post there. Hey, that makes me think. How did they manage to type proper words without sounding like me typing with my fist? Perhaps they use special dialing wands (a la The Simpsons). OR PERHAPS FAT PEOPLE HAVE LARDO SIZED KEYBOARDS. The buttons are the size of bricks. Hmm. But anyway, on with the insulting of the fat.

Yopamhere says: Does anyone know if nutritional yeast is allowed on the Core program? I put it on popcorn instead of butter but now I'm wondering if there could be a problem with my method.

Well FORGIVE ME IF I'M WRONG, but if you're trying to lose weight wouldn't it be a GREAT idea if you CUT OUT the buttered popcorn and snacks of the sort, PAM? And what sort of retarded posting name is 'yo, Pam here'. You are not a DJ. Well, you might be. I doubt it though.

Amy says: I don't know why I did it again.. this morning I started the day off good.. with soy milk and cereal.. tuna fish and an apple for lunch.. and then I went insane and binge ate the rest of the day.. What is wrong with me.. all I can do it set myself up to do better tomarrow

Shut up Amy, I don't care.

tfalkner says: I had a small list of goals for myself when I started.

1. Ride a roller coaster with my son
2. Draw my knees up to my chest
3. Have my thighs rub together

I know that # 3 sounds strange because this is what most people DON'T like. But for me, my thighs were so big that they didn't rub, they stuck!
Today, I went to walk up the stairs and my thighs rubbed together. I was so proud but didn't have anyone that I could tell!

Hahahhahahhahahha. Hahahhahahhahahaa. Hahahhahahhahaahaa. Wait, why is she having a problem with riding the roller coaster? I don't get it... if she falls out she's going to bounce, anyway. Or spat. Ooh, that could be nasty. Well, I guess they could harpoon her into the seat. Or something. I don't know, watch Moby Dick.
And I haven't even mentioned the thighs thing. But really, it's too easy. Just insert the insulting comments yourself.

At this point, I lose interest. Ah, well, here's the obligitary bit of Photoshop goodness. It's my idea for a weight-loss system that will DEFINITELY work in the long run.

Silly exercises? No.
Complicated diets? No.
Points counting? No.
Lots of congratulatory back-slapping and blow-job giving for dropping half a pound? Hell no.

My system has none of that bullshit. The Chainsaw Zombie Weight-Loss system relies on a 'carrot and stick' style method. In fact, it's even simpler than that. Two words: Run, fatty.



Now, I know what you're thinking. That guy doesn't really look that fat. Well, I guess I could have photoshopped him to make him look a bit fatter. But have a look at THIS:



That's what he looks like under that rather natty red jacket. The reason that the image is so small is that any bigger would corrupt my blog from a brilliant piece of literature into a slutty whore of internet pornography. Also, it would have corrupted/destroyed the ENTIRE INTERNET. And we wouldn't want that, would we.
In conclusion: If fat people are to be made thin, and therefore non-annoying and quiet, all is needed is to point a gun at them and keep them running until a: they die or b: they get fit enough to outrun the bullets. Either way, the weight gets dropped eventually. Either dropped metaphorically. Or literally. Into a hole.
Wicked. Oh crap, I just realised. This is an internet blog. Who is going to be reading this? Fat people. I just insulted my entire audience. Whoops. Sorry, fatsos. Keep buying the Chainsaw Zombie tshirts! Size XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXL is selling well.

An Islamic cow? Moohammed.

One more thing... am I the only one who finds the esure insurance adverts HILARIOUS? The idea of Micheal Winner in a dress is funny. Ah, dear, I'm easily pleased.

THIS is why I'm going to Hell

If you've just arrived on this blog through the amazingness of the 'next blog' button, this is not going to be a religious debate. Or a self riteous whinge about sin. In fact, it's going to be pretty damn awesome, so stick around if you like the idea of things being blown up. On the other hand, if you like animals/belong to PETA, leave. Now.

Man, I am bad. I really am. Guess what I did for an hour and a half today, instead of revising biology (crap... I am screwed for that test)? No, not masturbation, you sick freaks. An hour and a half? How the fuck would that be possible? It would have to be something really sick, like dead person/cassie porn, to get me that uninterested. And if I was that uninterested, I wouldn't spend an hour and a half looking at it, would I?
No. I was not looking at cheap internet porn (although tubgirl.com does have a certain allure). I was making a new banner for this blog.

OH GOD NO! Not a new BANNER! Because basically, I was planning on changing the name. Chainsaw Zombie was getting old; I was thinking of something new. Something fresh. Something that screams I AM A MODERN MAN AND I DEMAND SATISFACTION.
However, I couldn't think of anything of that sort that wouldn't make my blog sound like a male fragrance (which everyone knows, I hate). So I decided, screw it. Instead of a nice fresh thing, I'll just alter the words slightly and include hilarious animal cruelty. Animal cruelty is always great.

And seeing as I've already done in 77 tonnes of cat, here was my first idea:



Mwhahahha. Ha. Ha. Ah, deary me. That took me a good 35 minutes with the ol' Photoshop to find, edit, and stick together. And look at the way that the flames sort of lap around the poor kitten's body. FUCK YEAH. Whoops, I just swore. Oh well, I don't see any kittens around for God to kill.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Egypt:
In the mud hut of a Amun-Ra Bowman, egyptian desert cheiftan, a newly born kitten (tabby) opens its eyes for the first time to survey the world. Warm and comforted, snuggled amongst all its baby brothers and sisters, it feels content. The chieftan regards the cats with warm, loving eyes. Ah, the miracles of nature.
Suddenly, a beeping sound is heard, then a high pitched whine. Amun-Ra's eyes widen as he hears it. He looks to the kittens.
"Oh NO!" He cries (but in French, because his parents were Canadian) "Not again!"
He runs forward, and searches rapidly, desperately, through the kittens, until he finds the one he's looking for; the tabby, emmitting the beeping sound. He picks it up, runs outside holding it at arm's length. The rest of the tribe gawk at him.
"Get down, you fools!" he cries. "It's a live one!" The rest of the nomadic tribe gasp and leap to the floor. Amun-Ra lobs the cat as far in the air as he can, and leaps into a conveniently placed water-trough.
The kitten explodes with a devastating BANG that takes out an unfortunate flock of seagulls that somehow managed to be flying across this mainland part of the Sahara desert. The chieftan checks to see if anyone was hurt. Thankfully, everyone's ok.
"What was it?" asks Amun-Ra's wife, although she knows the answer. Kittens have been exploding in Egypt for the past three weeks. The most recent was in the devastating "Kittenrochema" explosion, in which 500,000 men, women and children were wiped out in one fell swoop.
"Another damn Westerner swore again," says Amun-Ra, feeling the sand under his toes, worrying. Sure, nobody had been hurt this time, but what about the next? The kittens could go off at any time...

So, yeah. That one was good, but not GREAT. The guy's feet seemed a bit melted off to me. So that got me thinking. What other small animals does everyone love? Then it hit me.

And so, with no further ado:



I am pleasingly TWISTED. This is what listening to the Pixies does to me. I should be put back on a diet of Red Hot Chilli Peppers til I love kittens/puppies again. Yes, I know, it's either a really small puppy or a really big hand; I prefer a mixture of the two; a quite small (but not freakishly so - it still could have led a full happy life) dog, and a guy with a really bloody huge hammer.
Aren't the motion effects GREAT? I sure am an artist.

But it still wasn't right. Puppies seem to be such an EASY target. It seems that every film nowadays has somebody drop-kicking a small animal out of a window (eg. Shrek 2, Pirates of the Carribean, American Beauty, Lost in Translation). To really give my site that EDGE, I needed something fresh, an animal that you wouldn't immediately associate with crushing.

A guinea pig? Nah, too medical experimenty.
A llama? Not cute enough.
A pony? Too cute.
A sparrow? Too small/easy to kill. I want something with a bit of MEAT on it.
A monkey? A MONKEY? What kind of sick twisted sonofabeep would want to kill a MONKEY? Do you know where humanity would be if if wasn't for monkeys? DO YOU? You sicken me.

Yeah, so I chose a lamb:



Bully to me. I think I'll stick with Chainsaw Zombie, though. So really, that past hour and this post was a total waste of time. Oh well, ho hum I say. But there is a moral to this story. I'll be damned if I can come up with it, but it's there somewhere.

What would a cow be if it had a long hair and was brown and was about 10000x cooler? A moonkey.

If anyone else thinks of any great animal torture ideas, let me know. This is important stuff, people.

"Give [love] a kick in the balls from me," - Oli G

I have decided that love sucks. Well, not love. Relationships. Well, not even relationships. Teenage relationships. Well, not even that. I mean teenage relationships that revolve around two or more couples sitting sucking each others lips while I sit there and stare blankly at a wall, trying to blot out the loud sounds of suction. Seriously, guys, today was like the internet history of Micheal Jackson, there were so many horny 16 year olds. OOH BURNED.
And anyway, what is this deal with kissing? Its just UNSAVOURY. Here's how the dictionary defines 'kiss':

Kiss n. A band from the 70's sporting cabucki theater make up and black leather costumes.They play awesome rock and roll and have survived line up changes and death of a member.

See? I rest my case. It is unsavoury. So don't act like you're so damn mature when you manage to pull it off. Mwahhaa. (Why did me typing 'pull it off' make me cackle so damn much?) So, in conclusion, I have decided that ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

Firstly, I don't like relationships. They require too much hard work. You have to, you know, take the effort to go and see the person and you have to talk to them and stuff. Apparently, just sitting in blank silence and playing with your phone for an hour, before checking your watch and striding out of the room doesn't seem to be a good example of 'quality time'. And I always end up looking like a frigid freak. ITS NOT MY FAULT THAT I HAVE NO SEXUAL CHEMISTRY WITH ANYONE. I am like the least sexually chemicular person ever. I'm the human equivalent of Wadey. Seriously, I could be locked in a room with Paris Hilton, and it would take a full four hours before she was blowing me. That's a long time, by the way. I was rinsing Paris Hilton. Because I hate her. Skank bitch.

And after a while you end up getting pissed off with each other / pregnant / getting STDs. And in the end, no matter how well the relationship goes, you both end up dead anyway. So, great one there. I just totally RINSED love. Did you hear me? Wicked. But, on the other hand, sex sounds like fun. And you need something to high five your friends with (male) or feel guilty about having done too soon (female).

nb: I just re-read that sentence. You do not literally high five your friends with sex. That would be unpleasant, heavy, sticky, and everyone would have to go and wash their hands thoroughly (with soap AND water) afterwards. So, don't do it. Have sex, THEN tell your friends, THEN high five.

Tangent over.

After a fruitful day of gazing at people making out, I have decided that a change is due. No longer will I be made to feel socially inept for not pulling the face off The Cowman. I will no longer endure your snooty looks as you lather yourself in someone else's saliva, phlegm, and half-digested food. No more will I be the weird asexual frigid freak at parties. Mwahahhaa. For, me and the Cazzoid have developed a brilliant system, that solves every problem, removes me of all the responsibility of relationships and still doesn't mean that my love life is deader than this fucking kitten:

(Imagine a really really nasty picture of a kitten dying/exploding here, I can't be bothered to make one properly at this point in time)

What is this plan called, I hear you cry? Simple:

Couple by Engagement

Basically, its very simple. You pretend to be a couple, but you don't actually do anything couply eg. talking, pulling, taking any effort to go and see each other, looking at etc.
BUT at the same time, you save up all your couply stuff. Then you release it all in a really crazy 10 minutes at some point in the future. This date will be pre-arranged. I'm imagining a wild orgy of crazy sex, latex, and wild and crazy arguments over the other partner's screwing around.
The BRILLIANCE of this plan is that you are absolved of all the consequences of coupledom, safe in the knowledge that any problems you have with your partner will be solved during the crazy ten minutes. You can literally do ANYTHING, and your partner can't say a word. Of course, they can equally be a bitch to you, so a trust system will evolve.

You're allowed to screw around, ignore your partner, disappear for weeks on end, get drunk, insult each other, and chase whatever bit of skirt takes your attention. I don't think I actually discussed that part of the plan with Cassoid, but if she wishes to complain, she can do on our crazy hour of death.

Therefore, all the nasty and boring bits of coupledom are cut out, and you can give the finger to all the other 'traditional' couples who will all die of AIDS pretty soon anyway. HA HA, you got screwed. Literally.... and now I've lost interest. Roll on May 24th.

This plan isn't going to work. I am going to die sad and lonely. Ah well.

A gay cow's worst fear? AIDS (Acquired imoono deficiancy syndrome)

On swearing

After some due consideration/soul searching, I have decided to swear less on this blog.
It was after I realised that I actually am the most foul mouthed member of the boat club. Now, this is no mean feat. The boaties are well known for their amazing use of expetives, throwing around the C word left, right, and fuckin' centre.

'OI, GET THE F...ING BALANCE YOU STUPID C...TS!'
'SHUT THE F... UP YOU C...!'

And that's just the teachers. A-ha-ha. The boys are even worse. And god bless us.
We are the most foul mothed of the sports, with effing and blinding being heard literally every minute during a de-rigging session. But I'm pretty sure I still managed to be the most filthy speaking potty mouthed sonofabitch who ever picked up an oar, and I'm pretty proud of that. The spewing forth of that amount of language is a complicated discipline, needing many hours of study, tongue weightlifting, language therapy, and standing on one leg on a post in the 'crane' position, while repeating the three core words over again: 'Fuck... shit... cunt... fuck... shit... cunt... hummmmm.' I did a lot of yen mediation too in a pub full of scousers, so that the foulness of the language could fully permate my entire soul.
It was hard, it was painful, but it was worth it.

But now, I have decided to tone down the ol' language a bit. Why? I'll tell you. As you all know, I have two idols in life: Ghandi and Stephen Fry*. And neither of them swore very much. Um. But for one much more important reason. Something my mother told me on her deathbed. Well, not her deathbed. You never know, she might die on it. I just had a thought. If somebody falls out of a plane (I dunno how, there's a hole in the floor or something), and they fall and they crash into a bed and die, does that bed become their deathbed? What if they crash into a hammock? Is it a death-hammock? Well, if I fall out of a plane, I don't want to end up in a death-hammock. Hammocks are silly and once you get into one, you can't get out without looking stupid. And the one time you don't wanna look stupid is when you're dead; you can't say something witty to get out it.

So, yeah. Something my mother told me on the bed that might be her deathbed, depending on her exact location when she dies:

Every time you swear, God kills a kitten.

Firstly, the actual proverb goes somewhat differently, but my mother is a frail, simple, confused person and I don't think she quite understands the concept of masturbation (which, by the way, Mrs Ogg, your son has been doing INTO THE CAULIFLOWER). Anyway, its now swearing that makes God kill kittens, not masturbation. And when she told me this, I was shocked. I swear so damn much... there must be a mountain of kittens somewhere that are dead JUST because of me. But how many? I did a bit of maths.

On average, I estimate that I swear once every two minutes, which is 30 times an hour (this is about right). If I'm awake for twelve hours a day, and I've been swearing competitively for an average of six years, then...

30 swear-words an hour x 12 hours a day x 365 days a year x 6 years = hahahahhahahhahahhahahaha.

I have sworn roughly 788,400 times over the course of my swearing life. Fuckin' brilliant. That's a LOT of cats. If the average new-born kitten weights 3.5 ounces, then I've taken out 2,759,400 ounces of kitten. THAT'S NEARLY 77 TONNES. DO I RULE OR NOT? That is quite an achievement. I am actually proud of myself for wiping out that many of the cat population.
I wonder if there's a huge pile of dead kittens out there somewhere. And how does God kill the kittens? Do they just collapse in the street or do rocks fall from above and split open their little heads? Its an interesting survey. In fact, I reckon that I'll do a test. All I'll need is a kitten and a swear word.

AND AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT...



Aww. Its so damn cute. Look at its little eyes. It's just so iccle and sweet, just begging to be stroked, petted, fed with food, and allowed to grow into a happy and healthy little member of society.

Its just a pity that can't happen.

I know, I know, I'm evil, I'm nasty. I shouldn't be allowed to perform experiments on animals in this matter. I should be locked in a cage and experimented on. But I have to do this, for the good of humanity. If I don't, who knows what sort of crazy shit will happen next? What if our mothers lied to us all along? What if swearing is a good thing? What if, instead of killing kittens, it takes out terrorists? You say the F-word and a hijacker has a heart attack. Or perhaps instead of killing kittens, it SAVES kittens from a nasty fate? We just don't know.

And if they're wrong about this one, what about everything else. Perhaps if the wind changes, our faces WON'T stay like that!
And... God forbid... do you think they were lying about crusts on sandwiches? WHAT IF THE CRUSTS AREN'T GOOD FOR US? What if the crusts are ACTUALLY POISONOUS? CHRIST. WE COULD ALL BE KILLING OURSELVES AS WE CHEW.

So you see, it is my duty as a MAN to do this. I must just see if the mothers were lying to us all along... I'm doing this for the good of humanity. I should... nay, I must... do this. I'm sorry.

Fuck.



Well, what do you know, they were telling the truth. That's a relief. Brave kitten, you died in a good cause.

What delicious snacks do cows enjoy? Moofins.

*Not really. They are both gimps. Fry is fat and Ghandi is thin. I guess if you mixed them together in an industrial cement mixer, you might get a normal sized guy. A homosexual indian spiritual leader/gameshow host with a nice cheery face and a fuckoff bizarre accent called Stephatma Fryndi.

If you are Ogg's mother, please read this post.

I have recently become aware of the fact that Mrs Ogg, the mother of our dear Ogg, has become rather worried about how her son is turning out; apparently she suspects him of drugs, hanging out with the wrong crowd and all sorts of mischief. And the Ogg's mother/Steve relationship doesn't seem to be getting on as well as it should (although I don't blame her; Steve is just the physical form of that horrified/sickened feeling you get when you see a man with no skin).

However, I don't think that I'd be any sort of a friend if I allowed THAT sort of thing to continue (as you all know, my own mother suspected me of being a homosexual bondage slave for some months, until she found out that I was just frigidly terrified of intimacy and sexual relations, which meant that her plan was going swell), and therefore, I decided to see for myself.

After some months (read: seconds) of careful espionage, stalking, camera and bug placement, false beards, surreptitious midnight rendezvous, and even one occasion when I had to squeeze my body into the shape of a doormat to avoid being detected, I have compiled a full and frank report of Ogg, to see just what's been going on. I call it:

The Ogg Files (It's like the X Files but much more mysterious and disturbing, and with less of David Schwimmer's annoying head. Fucking David Schwimmer. His ONLY good role was in Band of Brothers, and that was just because a: My father worked on it and b: Everyone hated him and took the piss)

I will dissect every part of dear Ogg's life, just to see if there is anything for her to worry about, and whether she should call in social services/an electro shocking machine. So, let's see.

1: Drugs
Apparently, Ogg's parent is convinced that he is a drug guzzling monster, sniffing his collar and interrogating him as to whether he's been smoking cannabis. Well, Mrs Ogg, I have to tell you, you have everything to fear. Ogg is the worst drug junkieman since the Michelin Man (who was originally red) discovered cocaine.

Have you ever seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? It's the film version of the book by the Great, Popified, Hunter S Thompson (nb: Popified is a new word I made up. It means dead) It's about these two guys who drive around Las Vegas getting shitfaced. However, there is one passage, which I need to quote, just to convey to you my point:

We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole multi colored collection of uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls.

Think thats bad? Pah. Its Ogg's muthafuckin' SCHOOL BREAK. I have a peanut butter and jam sandwich, he just goes through that lot. All day long, he's a-chewin' at that LSD, a-poppin' those pills and a-knockin' back that tequila. We try, oh we TRY to make him stop. "Stop, Ogg!" I cry, trying to pull the bag of extra-hallucogenic magic mushrooms from his grasp. "Shut up, pussy!" he hisses, shoving me aside before eating the whole bag, then washing it down with one of those water-cooler bottles of Pimms.
You know at home, how your broccoli and cottage cheese lasagna always excites him? It's cos the makeup of his plate is roughly 60% lasagna, 30% mescaline, 10% acid. Yeah, he drinks that acid by the pint glass, none of that blotter stuff for him. He says it makes it more fun. He's already been expelled from Hampton, KGS, LEH, Sir William Perkins's AND Rectory, but due to the vagaries of the British Postal system, the letters have yet to reach you. He now spends his time dealing drugs on the street.

I think he might have a drug problem.

2: Basketball
Well, have you heard the urban legend that basketball is just a codeword for 'violent street gangs who get their kicks from murdering, pillaging, graffiti, car theft, joyriding and wanton jaywalking, vandalism and large scale property destruction'? It's not an urban legend. Its true.

Your dear Ogg is part of a violent backstreet army known only as the 'Wicked Rebel Boyz', who spend their time doing the activities I've just listed. I managed to infiltrate the gang during my investigations by pretending to be a black body-builder called Raphael, and it seems that Ogg has been elected king of this army of vice. Already, they have established dominance on the local graphiti and vandalism front. Mrs Ogg, if you take the time to go outside and check your front wall, you will see that it is no longer there; the Wicked Rebel Boyz stole all the bricks and replaced them with chewing gum wrappers from a raid in Staines.

The Wicked Rebel Boyz are planning a frontal armed war on a rival street gang, the Hampton Jazz Cafe, in three days, and already have stockpiled a cache of guns, ammo and offensive cudgels. I advise you to do something about this NOW. Put a lock on his room (actually, he'll kick down the door. He did it in the British Museum and he'll do it again), chain him to the floor (actually, he'll just break the chains with his teeth, like he did with his handcuffs in Stockholm), or phone the police. Actually, scratch that. DO NOT PHONE THE POLICE if you don't want a political scandal on your hands.

Dear Ogg has slightly gone astray. Perhaps you could call the Supernanny in from Channel 4's 'Supernanny' to sort him out, through positive discipline, rewards, gentle nagging and the naughty step.

3: His friends
Rapscallions, the lot of 'em. Well, two exceptions. They are dear Tommy Pheepps, a chaste non-drinker who in his spare time helps out at charity raffles and saves baby kittens from mines, and dear Mickey Youneese, a black man who spends most of his time either at prayer or painstakingly whittling models of the Cutty Sark out of soap. Those two are ok, trying to steer Ogg out of the path of temptation. But the rest, ooh, I wouldn't trust them for one SECOND near your son. Here's a breakdown of my results:

Oli G: Manwhore, drug addict, cuts down trees in Bushy Park with an axe for fun, also hunts wild dear. And, most disturbingly, is not a vegetarian. Not a nice person.
Paul: Midget, wild and crazy hair denotes a homosexual, stalker, cocaine dealer, wife beater, also likes to set fire to old people. Not a nice person.
Bibby: Christian fundamentalist who also worships the devil, also a pimp, hired goon for the mob, known in specialist circles as 'Black-souled Bibby the Boston Butcher'. Not a nice person.
Marios: Homosexual who is trying to lure your son into the ways of the queer. Also, is an apple scrumper, and five time rapist of old women/young boys/babies/sheep. Not a nice person.

I think we can all agree that he is hanging out with the wrong crowd.

5: His musical tastes
He listens to Eminem and Placebo. Sounds of the Devil. The Devilllllll. He's already into animal sacrifice in his room, and his gang is looking for somebody willing to participate in a human bloodletting. All in all, you should get him back onto classical music QUICK. But not Bach. God help you if he starts listening to Bach again.

6: Girls
Girls! Ha ha. You were right to be worried when he started hanging around with GIRLS. Girls are behind every bad thing to ever happen on the world EVER.

Adam and Eve being thrown out of the Garden of Eden, therefore condemning humanity for all time? Girls.
Indiana Jones being captured by the Nazis, therefore nearly causing the destruction of freedom as we know it, in blockbuster spectacular Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? Girls.
Luke nearly being taken over by the dark side and becoming an evil sith because of his nasty, nasty father, Darth Vader? Girls.
The Pope dying? Girls.

So this intrusion of females into dear Ogg's life is nothing short of a catastrophe. Already they have begun to work their wicked ways on him; he's emptied your bank account to buy them perfume, fine silk stockings and lipstick containing real rubies, and has skipped school (not that that matters now) to hang around with them on street corners.

And they aren't simple schoolgirls, as was once assumed. No, they are beer-swigging, coke snorting prostitutes, every one of them (with a single exception), and it was they who first got him into the pimping business. Especially Abi. I don't trust her. So now, all the time he's not spending with the Wicked Rebel Boyz, he's driving around in a pink convertible, wearing a purple suit, topped off with a purple hat with a jay's feather and a solid gold walking stick, drive by shooting other pimps and beating up whores with his posse.

I said there was one exception who wasn't a whore. That exception is the one known as Steve. She isn't his whore. She's his WIFE. They got married in a shotgun (literally) ceremony just outside Staines, and ever since has been doing strange crazy sexual shenanigans all day and all night. Every part of your house has seen them spraying their bodily fluids around; Ogg's bed, your bed, the dining room table, the kitchen surface, the oven, each and every one of the dinner plates and a large proportion of the forks, and they even used several uncooked broccoli sticks as sexual toys. Hint: that wasn't fish in that broccoli and garlic pasta. They both also like latex.

And you were correct. Steve hates you, and is plotting the exact moment when she kidnaps you and throws you into a huge pit before seducing your husband and taking her place at the top of the Ogg family tree. I would be very worried, and possibly call in some protection. I would have suggested John Creasy from Man on Fire, but he dies at the end. Haha, I ruined the end of the film. Oh well, it wasn't that good, really.

Overall
Basically, Mrs Ogg, your son HAS gone totally off the rails. He is an evil rapscallion and you are fully justified in worrying about him. In my humble opinion, the only thing you really can do is to send him away, possibly to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he can sit and think about what hes done, while having many exciting and magical adventures with Harry, Ron, Hermione and the rest of the gang.

(Yes, I know David Schwimmer wasn't in the X Files, you dipshits, it just struck me as amusing.)

Where did Jewish cows go in Nazi Germany? Extermoonation camps.

Oh. Em. Gee.

Sex in a BOTTLE.
Fitness on WHEELS.
Godlyness on a STICK (like Jesus)
Hotness in a blue ribbon.

My new revision timetable is here.

Now, many of you may know about my previous revision timetable. It was a small, ugly sonofabitch full of nasty black lines, all black and white and so SO out of FASHION. In fact, I showed it to this man:



... and he said that it was 'old fashioned, tacky, and so not you'. So I suspended him from a bridge by his hair and left the vultures to pick his carcass. The old timetable may have been bad, but I made it, and therefore its about 10000x better than all the fake MDF oak-effect swedish victorian dining tables in the shape of Queen Victoria, decorated with dried leaves and bits of metal found on the street that HE can come up with, the long haired tit. Hahah, Mr Lewlynn (I'm not even going to pretend I know or care how to spell it) Bowen, you have just reached your 16th minute of fame. RINSED.

Um.

But my NEW revision timetable... ho boy. Lets just say, it's SO hot, it is literally in danger of spontaneously combusting. I have a small team of firemen on hand, just to douse it down in case the edges start smouldering. It's a 24 hour job. The heat eminating from this baby is so hot, it's melted their boots and they have to dress in an outfit made of reinforced diamond-compound. It's that damn hot.

Firstly, it's A3 sized. ITS BIG. Bigger than King Kong's cock. Just after jumping into a warm bath. Full of naked lady-monkeys. Attached to my wall now, it glows with a huge spiritual power of its own. I cower under its gaze. I am not worthy to revise properly from it. And do you know how many bits of Blu-Tak were needed to properly affix it to said wall? Not one. Not two. Not, indeed four. Six. No, you're not hearing incorrectly. I did, indeed, say that. SIX motherfuckin' bits of Blu-Tak were needed to attach this daddy to the wall. SIX. Thats like, fuckin', TEN. Nearly. Christ.

And also, it has COLOURS. That immeditately raises it above the level of your common or garden NORMAL revision timetable.
This mofo is in white, black, pink, green AND yellow. All the colours of the rainbow. And there's even a key, which I actually
cut off when I was reducing my timetable into a size that would allow its manliness to reverberate around my room without
taking out the entire house in one sonic boom of manly awesomeness (Oli Gill did this once. After doing 783 sit ups in the
space of a minute, he ate a hunk of steak and flexed his biceps, while growing a huge beard and, in doing so, levelled most of Teddington).

Christ, this song is sending me into a deep coma. It's the Ryan Adams version of 'Wonderwall' (it was on the boatie CD), and so far I've listened to it 7 times on loop AND ITS SO DAMN RELAXING. No, wait, I just looked at my timetable and I'm ready to single-handedly take down the armies of the Third Reich, armed only with a baseball bat, a cigar, and a set of manly wise-cracks.

This timetable, though, is so amazing. It's the sort of timetable GOD would have. Exept without the subjects. Instead, he'd have stuff like:

Create world
Do lots of fancy miracles
Stop doing stuff
Have a rest
Don't show face to world
Pretend that you don't care that nobody believes in you
Stop doing stuff
Appear on some fried toast in Texas; pretend that this makes up for 1000 years of non-miracles
Accept that you have actually been replaced by Jerry Springer
Lose interest
Disappear
Get replaced by McGod, a red demon with a halo of two arches, serving out salads from one hand, and liver cancer from the other

Yeah, man. This is God's revision timetable.
I'm still not planning on revising properly, though.

What do horny cows do on rowing camps? Moosterbate!

Oh, bollicks.

Show me the house of the guy who invented AS level core mathematics.

*Fires rocket launcher*



HA HA. Not so smart now, are you, you big faced path analysing jerk. Grumphle. I just did an AS maths paper. WEW. Even when I try to cheat and look up how to do it, its still fucking impossible. Find the earliest finish time and the latest start time, take them away to find a, uh, float, and WHO CARES. None of it matters. Its all fucking POINTLESS. I mean, it would be nice if I even had a fucking clue what I was meant to be achieving with flows. What is a flow? Why? Who? I DON'T KNOW/CARE.

I actually think that my brain is chemically unable to comprehend AS maths. And this is decision maths, the easier subject (my 69% exam). I'm too scared to even LOOK at the core maths paper (a smooth 36% in the exam). This entire subject just makes me want to cry tears of pain. Why, oh WHY, did they decide that, as I was good enough to do GCSE maths early, AS maths was in my grasp? It is quite plainly NOT.

And things weren't made easier that my calculator died halfway throught the paper. Well, I say died. Actually, I HAD already stabbed it in the circuit board with a compass in a fit of pique. Then it started to fade halfway though a calculation I was doing (I had actually no idea what I was going to achieve with the answer I got at the end), so I smashed it on the desk. The screen sort of fell out of place, and now when I turn it on the screen sort of goes wavy and nothing happens. Sob. So, I'll be taking it apart later on to see whats going on inside. Then I'll be smashing the remains with a hammer. Woopers.

Um. *had an idea* MAYBE THERE WILL BE A GOOD EXPLANATION ON BBC BITESIZE. Come on, BBC, you can save my life here... no, no you can't. WHY is there no decision maths stuff ANYWHERE? I'm so fucked.

*looks sad*

What subject to cows hate? Mooths.

Hampsterland revisited

I cannot be arsed, really. Ouch. ROCK LOBSTER.
So here are just some random points from each day.
Ok, deep breath, release, and GO:

Saturday
We saw a bat in the car park.
I didn't want to go. I considered purposefully falling down the stairs when I got up, in order to break something small and relatively painless ie. my toe.
We listened to a CD on the bus. It had the most RANDOM acoustic remix of Wonderwall EVER on it. No, seriously, this was bizarre. He sort of lengthened random words, then added pauses, eg:

Today is gonna be the... day that theeeeeeeeeeeeeeir gonna... throwitback...to... YOU!

It was shit. Once we were in Hamsterland, Croucher got lost. I made a mistake in the previous blog, in saying the lake was in Haziwinkle; this was incorrect. The lake was actually the Amsterdam Bos, and nobody had a fucking clue where the hell it was. I mean, for fucks sake. So we were sitting in Wilko's bus, following Croucher's bus all across the farming reigons of Amsterdam. Amusingly, we saw EVERY traditional Nederlands stereotype in the space of an hour: Dykes (tee-hee), Clogs, Windmills, and a lack of hills. The only thing we didn't see were latex-clad ladyboys smoking spliffs while taking dumps on top of leather-boy scout uniform wearing bondage slaves. But I get enough of that at Steve's house, I don't need much more, to be honest.

But COME ON, Croucher. At least look up where the damn lake is next time. It was hilarious, we went into so many random car parks etc; and Wilko's language got more and more foul as the day went on and we progressed through my REM CD. By the time we were at 'Nightswimming' he was theatening GBH on our beloved rowing leader. Well, not really beloved. But we arrived eventually.

Then we found out that Mr Nimmons (one armed guy, boatie coach) had died, and that was quite sad. Not on the actual trip, of course. That would have been bad. He was in Portugal. And to think; I was the last one to ever get the Mr Nimmon's award. Well, technically, it was that wankerish J15 who got it this year, but he's probably gay, and I'll beat it out of him. I'm only kidding. I couldn't beat an egg sandwich out of a damp paper bag. What do I say? I know not.

Sunday to Saturday
Everything sort of runs together at this point. I can literally not remember anything, except for a few perks:

I learnt that I can stroke the boat. Now, I can't be bothered to properly explain what that bit of boatie terminology means, so you will just have to use your imagination. Knock yourselves out in the imaginamanation department. However, with Simon (SEXY) behind me, I had all the amusement I needed. I know, it's not big, it's not clever, but it is FUCKING HILARIOUS to wind him up, eg:

(the balance in the boat is off)
Simon (fuming angry): Get the BALANCE...
Me: Simon says get the balance!
Simon: SHUT UP
Me: Simon says shut up!
Simon: *angry spluttering sound*
Ben: Calm down, Simon.
Me: Simon says rub your head!
*Ben rubs his head*

Hahahha. Or:

Cox: Bowside, row on.
Me: Yeah, bowside, sort it OUT.
Simon (who is on bowside): Arghhhhrgh.

Now I think about it, it's not that funny, but it was in the boat, ok? Screw YOU.
Then the first eight ran rampant with a razor on one fateful afternoon. After taking off Hudspith's eyebrows, they look out half of one of Sasha's. Hahahahha, Hudspith looks like such an orc. He is ODD, with a capital ODD. So, indeed, ODDodd. And then Curry got his head shaved. Seriously, I reckon he brought it upon himself. I mean, you would have to be a total fuckwit to allow a bunch of overexcited boaties to give you a haircut. But he was bought over by their promises of fancy 'speed lines'. Hmm. Here it is in excruciating detail:

1: They start to cut a line in his hair. Nobody has any clippers, so they just use beard trimmers and some blunt hair scissors.
2: They end up cutting a fat chunk of hair out, in a roughly triangular stylee shape.
3: In order to sort this, they just cut some more out. Somebody, in an attempt to 'even it out', shaves a hunk off.
4: The original hairdressers run off, but some more join in. A huge crowd forms in the bathroom where this is taking place.
5: Somebody tells Curry that 'it'll be fine', but cracks up laughing halfway through. An honest to goodness gay boatie is consulted. He suggests making a cool looking racing stripe. Curry now looks like a reverse monk.
6: A huge bald patch is now hacked/created.
7: Linacre wanders in, sees the 'do', and cracks up laughing. Curry looks miserable. The entire boat club is now crammed into the hotel room.
8: The rest of Curry's hair is taken off with some low-battery beard trimmers by Linacre.
9: Curry looks pissed off.

ALSO, I had no idea that so many of my fellow boaties were such wankers. WANKERS. I mean that literally. Not one of them could go for a week without jerking off. IT'S ONE WEEK. At least I have some damn self-control. And then they all went off and bought porn, then looked really pleased with themselves. Great, you spent your parent's money and bought some nasty low budget lesbian porn dvds. Well bloody done. But stop looking so superior. Porn is, basically, pretty pathetic, when you get down to it. You saw some boobies, now please stop being so over-excited.
Although, Boner did once again manage to live up to his nickname. That was amusing.

Ho hum. I can't be bothered to type more. Mr Fisher is a dude, with his random australian country rock, most of which revolves around drinking and sex. Dude. DUDE.

Raise your hand if I rule.



Oh, so that's everyone. Tee hee hee.

Cow bullets: Amoonition.

I am back

Motherfucker.
Nah, cannot be arsed to type anything.

23 comments? Man, you people have been missing me.

A cow's ice cream: Moognum.

Good-bye everyone

I hate you all.
Except Fati. Who is funny.
I DON'T WANT TO GO TO HAMPSTERLAND.
Grr.

Text me.

A cow's facial hair? Moostache!

Graph

That wasn't me saying 'graph', as in thing with axis you draw a lot in Physics for no reason. That was an annoyed sound of anger.
WHY IS EVERYBODY SO HAPPY NOW? There is nothing to be happy about. At all. Exams are coming up, which means that the weeks will be filled with:

a: Revising
b: Feeling guilty about not revising enough
c: Panic attacks
d: Practise papers

Argh. I hate exams, so damn much. Especially Science exams, as they are so... damn... pointless. Who gives a flying fuck about transformers? Am I going to be an electrician when I grow up? No. I am going to be King of the World, so really, the only test I actually NEED to do is gonna be a blood test, just to make sure I am who I say I am. And I will pass the blood test, because I rule at everything.
And I don't mean to be big headed (I am famed across the world for my modesty) but I'm getting all A*s whatever happens. So why do I have to start revising NOW? There are like 50 days till the exams. Shit, how much do they want us to do? Well, according to Mr F, 3 hours a day, every day, for the entire Easter Holidays at least. Ahem. I actually choked on my tongue when I heard that.

Mr F: ... bla bla bla... 3 hours a day all holidays...
Me: *Splutter, choke, argh* What the FUCK?

So far, I am 43% through the holidays, and I have done a total of 0 days, 0 minutes, and 23 seconds of revision. And it wasn't proper revision, really. ACTUALLY WAIT. I spent 6.5 days in France. If I'm awake for an average of 15 hours a day, SURELY that counts for a substantial amount of revision. Lets work this out, using the miracles of mathematics:
6.5 x 15 hours of French revision in France = 97.5 hours
23 x 3 hours of normal revision I would have done if I'd followed the school's revision plan = 69
AHA. So, actually, I have done 141% of the required revision already. So, uh, screw you. I worked all that out on a calculator that was missing the middle two digits, too. So some of the numbers might be wrong. Ah, screw it, I'm failing AS Maths anyway. Aww, man. I just remembered.
Here's the homework I haven't done:

A Decision maths paper
A massive fucking pile of Biology revision for a test
One, possibly two, physics paper
A Biology report about cloning
OH SHIT. A core maths paper. Fucked I am.
And, of course, the requisite revision for all the other subjects.

I AM NUTTED. Quite literally.

I have to go to fuckinggayarseboobs AMSTERDAM. Yes, Amsterdam. Home of marijuana (which carrys threat of expulsion), weird niche videos (women eating bananas for three hours, people missing the toilet, people sticking hamsters up various orifices, dogs/sheep/welshmen getting thoroughly surprised, people drilling nails into each other's penises, high voltage nipples rings, and lycra-wearing midgets spraying salad cream and urine on each other before dressing up in leather japanese schoolgirl uniforms and whipping donkeys), and some godforsaken rowing lake. Shiiit. Here's a picture of the lake in question:



Looks nice, eh? WELL YOU ARE WRONG. WRONG I SAY. I bet the Titanic looked nice, but then the dipshit sailor guy had to crash into Frosty the Snowman, totally bollocking up the plan. Personally, I would have been content to look at Kate Winslet's boobs for the 12 hours that film lasted, but oh well. C'est la vie. But this lake, hmm. Well, better than the one at Ghent. Although, technically ANYTHING was better than the lake at Ghent. The lake at Ghent was basically a dirty puddle of piss in the middle of a giant stone urinal, filled with dead fish, Belgian pikeys, a funfair, and lots of pissed off boaties. We lived in wooden unheated shacks, got huge blisters and waged a bitter war of hate against the world. Hmmph. ANYTHING is better than Ghent. I dunno about this Hazeliwinkel, or whatever its called, but it looks a lot like Sleepy Hollow to me. And all those trees mean that the water is forever gonna be filled with bits of fuckin' wood. Why did God create wood? It just floats there and fucks me up when I'm rowing. Well, I can't row that well anyway, but the wood is no help. Wanker.

For those who don't know, here is where Amsterdam is on a map:



Yep. In Amsterdamn (cunning, eh), I am basically, going to do the following:
Row
Row
Row my boat
Gently down the stream
Row
Cry
Grow blisters (YOU GET SUCH HUGE BLISTERS... just imagine rubbing your hand against a bit of wet rubber coated wood for a week, sweating and wearing lycra... actually, that's what the average trip to Amsterdam is like, really. BADABING BADABOOM)
Want to go home
Row
It is going to be SHITMONKEYS. Arghhhhhh. I do not like rowing one bit. Do you know how EASY my life would be without rowing? Very easy, that's how easy. It would actually be a total doss.

So, those are my main reasons why I'm depressed. Actually, there's some other stuff. I am feeling a touch guilty at my many sins. Here is my list of apologies to various people:

Fati: My dearest Fati is upset. And that makes me annoyed, as Fati should always be cheery, and I feel that it might be partially my fault. I am sorry I couldn't go to the cinema today, but my mother forced me to stay home and revise. If if makes you feel any better, I am not planning on doing any revision (after all, with all the stuff I've already done, all 97.5 hours of it, I don't want to overstretch myself). CHEER UP, dear. Your bunny picture was absolutly brilliant. Have an Oreo. Also, your piece of magic cardboard is on my desk, ready for me to present it magically to you.
Cassandra: I am sorry, you cunt, for being so useless. I'm not sure what at, but apparently, I am. If you were expecting a long night of passion from me, uh, yeah, sorry. I will give you your postcards when I see you next. Also, I will 'storm your barricades', as a wise man (me) once said. Haha, who am I kidding... I'm a human fridge. I AM COLD. Where is my sexy hoodie? ps: I am amazing at taking off bras. Not really. Who the hell invented bra straps? Houdini? Me and Paul spent all of yesterday attempting to take off bras with one hand. Paul was far better than me but, lets face it, its because his hands are small and girlish, and he has had much more practise at doing at it at home, in front of a mirror.
Paul: I am sorry for insulting you in the previous apology. You are lovely, really. And your hair is nice. Snigger. Also, sorry for calling you a twat in about eighteen sentences.
Marios: On the subject of stupid haircuts, I have an apology for Marios. Sorry, Marios for pretending to be Cassie and asking you to show us your nipples on webcam last night. You dance in a very nice way. Snigger. Also, sorry for putting laxatives in your milk-bottles. You should be feeling the effects about... now. Whoops. Sorry.
Kris: Sorry for saying that you were easy. But, come on, you are. Just give you a shiny stone and you are dazzled and impressed for twenty minutes. You are the human equivalent of a japanese anime schoolgirl, and that's why I love you. Not literally, of course, Joe. Don't hurt me. Anyway, Kris already married Paul. Not my fault. Actually, it is, as I was the minister, because Paul thinks I'm jewish. I AM NOT JEWISH, you twat.
Roxy: I'm not really sorry for wedgying you, but I just felt like telling everyone: I GAVE ROXY A WEDGIE. She was hopping about and screaming like the best orgasm she'd ever had (which was, bizarrely, when she first laid eyes on me), and then spent the rest of the day spinning about to stop me getting near her underwear.
Georgie: She doesn't read this because she doesn't like me. Technically, she hates me. She doesn't want me to come to her party. In fact, she actively banned me from going; I don't know why. Well, I do. I said she looked like James Zaremba. AND SHE DOES. They have a similar facial structure. Why can't she see that it wasn't an insult, just a statement? Screw it. Well, I'll just do what I always do when somebody takes one of my statements the wrong way and gets offended. I'm just going to have to keep saying it.

Therefore, this is the first meeting of the Georgie looks like Zaremba club, in which we say that Georgie looks like Zaremba. (I am currently looking for members, so if anyone feels like joining, just contact me for info.)

This is what Georgie and Zaremba looked like as children:



See? THEY ARE IDENTICAL. I rest my motherfuckin' case.
Whoops, this was meant to be an apology. Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not apologising, James.

What was Hitlers cow called? Moosilini!