This post contains HILARIOUS violence...

So if you think that images of torsoless bodies, gun-happy gangstas, bones shattering, green midgets in wheelchairs being beaten up by nuns on LSD, lungs being ripped out with boxing gloves, and blood being splattered across the dancefloor might disturb or traumatise you, well then, fuck off and read some stupid womanly blog about tampons and babies and other womanish issues. But if you're still up for some REAL MANLY FUN, here we go...

Actually, just in case I get sued by some dipshit woman (it's ALWAYS women) for traumatising her two-year-old with the shocking imagery that I'm about to pop forth unto the net, I have decided to rate the following post 12A:


This rating means that everybody can get to see the film because, to be honest, none of the cinema staff give a shit. Anyway. On with the Crazy Train.

* * *

I was standing outside in the wind today, waiting for a lift home. I was annoyed. Very annoyed. I was seething. Smoke was coming out of my ears (which usually is the sign of a stroke, but in this case was humorously denoting anger). Why was I annoyed? I was annoyed for a brightly coloured spectrum of reasons. The main one was the somewhat obvious fact that my entire extended family had died in various unrelated surgeries ALL OVER THE SAME WEEKEND. And that meant that my iPod wouldn't be fixed for AGES.
To add to my woe, I'd just got my period for the first time (which was odd, seeing as I'm a: male and b: two months pregnant) so I was getting stomach cramps and I was also pretty sure that there was a small pack of feral cats licking up the trail of bloody tissue-matter that I was dripping behind me as I went. As well as the above biological impossibility, I was also annoyed at being uncermonially and unexpectedly and unwarrantedly dumped from the 2nd Eight like a pack of metaphorical potatoes. Heartbroken, in fact.

So you can see, I was going through a deep spiritual anger. And when I get that irritated, bad things happen.

When I get that angry, I revert into what I've taken to calling in the past two seconds my "Mean Mofo Mode". MMM. Or MeMoMo. No, MMM is good. This basically means that I have been ground down to the very tiniest scrapings of my temper and thus, the very next person who tries to mess wit me, I will TAKE DOWN. Although this take-downage will possibly be verbal, it will be brutal and bone-crushingly harsh and will involve blood being sprayed about like a high-pressure hose in a factory full of sharp pins. It's like bloodlust.
When I enter the MMM zone, I feel no fear.
I would walk into a cage full of hungry insane rabid lions wearing a suit made out of wilderbeast without a flicker of fear, because I knew that if those lions even dared to try and eat me I would punch them out STONE COLD.
I would make a flippish comment to Oscar Wilde about the cut of his gib and would engage him in a long verbal battle until he collapsed to the ground, a shivering wreck, no longer able to speak multi-syllabic words, brush his own teeth or even chew properly. Silly poof.
I would stroll cheerily into the middle of a group of pikeys, make a comment about them being lower class, then start playing with my mobile phone while wiping the rain off the screen of my diamond studded iPod with a £50 note wrapped around a PSP made of solid gold, and if a single pikey even looked like he was gonna jack me, I'd grab his ears, rip them off his head then stick a small cermaic penguin into the gaping hole where the left ear once sat, and a Kinder Surprise in the other, before beating up the rest of his chums and going home with their noses strung on a cord around my neck.
I would run into a maternity ward smoking a cigar and passing out coathangers, and I would poke fat people with sticks made out of fried chicken, and I would actively try to crash ocean liners into rocks next to Greenpeace protected nature reserves full of cute baby seals, and I would yell "GOD SAVE KING GEORGE" in a pub full of angry American Colonial Soldiers, and I would beat a bear at Sudoku and I would challenge Wolverine to a thumb war and I would set fire to a cat with claws made of soldering irons and I would do all these things and LAUGH because when I'm in the MMM mood nothing is scary enough to faze me. Thank God it usually only lasts a half hour or until I get cold.

Perhaps I exaggerate. But make no mistake - when I'm in MMM (which, I've realised, sounds remarkably like HIV, PMT, or DSA Theory Test) I will take no shit from no-one, and any pikey who tries to mug me WILL feel the back of my hand. Well, that's what I like to think. I don't know, I've never been mugged (perhaps because all the chavs take one look at me and go "Woah there, comrades - keep back, this fellow looks like he knows how to handle himself"). But I like to think that, if somebody ever did come up to me in the street and threatened me with a bowie knife, I'd be able to take that sucker down.

Perhaps not. The evidence speaks to the contrary. Example: Last summer, following a well bangin' rave, I was hanging with my compatriots outside a train station like a proper example of the youth of today, waiting for my butler to come and pick me up, when this hilarious crackhead irishman came up and started menacing a ginger kid.
Who was he? I don't know and I don't care, he was ginger, the Irishman could have bitten off his nipples for all it mattered to me. BUT the most important thing was, it was an incendary situation requiring some diplomacy. The crackhead needed to be carefully reasoned out of his drunken rage, and if he saw that any of us were laughing at him, he'd probably headbutt that ginger kid into a quivery, amorphic candle-mush. And that wouldn't have been good. I might have got some mush on my awesome hello Dave t-shirt. So what did I do? I did the only thing that any good man would do in such a situation. I just turned up the music on the iPod, stood behind Paddy McCrackhead, and started doing some cutesy little dance moves to distract the rest of the gang who were trying to reason with him and get him to put down the 2x4 with the barbed wire wrapped round it.
Probably it wasn't my most courageous moment, but hey, I wasn't the one being threatened, and at the end of the day, who finished the night with all his teeth? Me. Unlike the ginger kid, who got all his ribs and two of his necks splintered into dust and now travels around in a high powered electric scooter like some sort of tripped out jellyfish.

I like to think that if the Irishman had threatened me, I wouldn't have messed around. I'd have shown him a card trick, then while he was distracted with my magical abilities, I'd have slapped him round the face, then judo-snapped him in the neck before karate-spinning him around and kick-boxing him repeatedly in the arse til he ran away crying like a little girl. A little drunken irish crackhead girl. Is there any other kind?
Of course to do that, I'd need to learn some ninja moves first. At the moment, I have no moves. None whatsoever. Well I guess that I have the moves from the self-defence course I took three years ago. This course was taught by the head of RS at our school, a peaceful buddhist who took a term off to go live in the mountains with bears. No, really. The four-fold awesome ninja-skillz he imparted to me were:

1: Clever Heron's Shattered Scissor-Kick
If somebody grabs you, you sort of wiggle and slap at them until they let go, then you run off squealing like a piggy.

2: The Bleeding Heart of the Lonely Man
Basically, with this move, you stop your attacker DEAD IN HIS TRACKS. What you do is, right, you hold out one hand in front of you in a STOP gesture. With the other, you sort of waft it about in a SLOW DOWN maneuvre. Then you say, in a strong firm voice "Go away, please. Be gone." These two hand signals combined with the command will instantly cause any attacker to halt and might even cause them to give up a life of crime and join a nunnery. It's psychology, you see.

3: Sandra Bullock's left testicle mouse
Wait until somebody grabs you, then you smack them firmly in the crook of the arm (???) while simultaneously punching them in the nose. I wasn't quite sure what the hell this was supposed to achieve, so we partnered up and gave it a go. My partner then proceeded to accidentally punch me hard in the face and make my lip bleed. Yes. The first time I got punched really hard in the face was during a self defence class. By a little Chinese person. Now that's irony.

4: Wise Man's Hurricane Fury
Cry like a little girl and give them your phone.

By the way, I made up the names myself. Pretty nifty, huh? Yep, those are my only moves. Hardly the Ninja Turtles, is it? More like the Ninja Tortoise. But that's ok. Because I'm still young, and I still have my theory. Well, it's not my theory as such, I stole it off the blurb of a sci-fi book I was reading about on the internet, but the point is, it's a good theory and who the hell cares what some shitty sci-fi book has to say on the matter when it's quite clear that I'm a damn sight more handsome than whoever the hell wrote it.
Anyway, my theory is that if I was to drop everything - rowing, schoolwork, homelife, other people - and spent all my time doing sit ups and practising martial arts and learning archery and whittling little statues out of wood with a machete, perhaps leaving the country to live in a monastery in China or some underground tiger-fighting rink in Brumsley, I could turn myself into the hardest and most mean, hardass motherfucker on the entire planet in a period of - I estimate - five years. Less, if there's a war on. I mean, it'd be long and difficult, but when you're fighting for such an awesome ideal, the time would fly.
Bruce Wayne did it. One day he's some wussy little kid with bad hair and a silly tuxedo, the next he's a crime fighting, cape wearing, armour plated man of the night. Which is like a woman of the night, but with less sex with men. And more sex with sheep.

But think about it. The hardest man on the planet. How awesome would that be? To have people (and cats) looking at you with fear and jumping out the way, to have the ability to drop-kick a pig three miles, to be able to scale brick walls, to be able to tightrope walk across Niagra Falls without any light to see by, a balancing stick, or even a tightrope, to be able to confidently go into a 12 against 1 knife fight armed stark naked, armed only with a battered copy of As I lay Dying by William Faulkner, to seduce women with a blink of an eye and to disarm world leaders with a pen. The sort of guy that the President of the United States or the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom calls up when the country is in jeapoardy.

*Ring ring*
"Hello?" (No wait, I wouldn't pick up saying "hello?" I'd pick up saying "Phipps here." Much cooler)
"Tom, it's me. Tony Blair. I'm sorry, but terrorists have kidnapped the entire royal family and -"
"I'm on it."
*Puts down phone*

You know the only other guy I can imagine being that hard? Jack Bauer. Jack Bauer, at the moment, is the hardest man in the entire world. Jack Bauer can stay up all night without eating anything and still be able to kill 7 men with his bare hands. Jack Bauer holds the fate of us all in his calloused manly hands. Jack Bauer fears nothing except fear itself. And yet I still reckon that I could take him down after 5 years of intensive mean mofo training.

There's only one thing left to sort out, really - my speciality. Every awesome hardass has a speciality, an edge over the other hardasses out there. I had a couple of cool possibilities, involving swords and hammers, but they were a bit samey. Then I had some others involving magical powers, the best of which was "The power to control the sea using whistles", but I came up with a much better idea - Cutlery Fighting. Because it strikes me that the sea may be all well and good and powerful and all that, but honestly, how often are you within whistling distance of the sea? Unless you're an Indian, hardly ever. But how often are you within reach of a knife, or a serving skillet, or a ladel? Every day. They even give you a little plastic knife and fork when you go on a plane. So it strikes me that it would be awesome to be a master of murder using all sorts of cutlery.
And to be honest, can you think of a single better implement to behead somebody with than one of those little spiky sticks that you use to hold corn on the cob?

Wait, there's one more thing. I'd need some sort of motivation. All the great badass mofos had some sort of motivation. Usually involving family members. Bruce Wayne's parents were killed, the Punisher's family was killed, Rambo's family were killed, the Shark from Jaws 2's family were killed, Shaun of the Dead's family were killed, Ash's family and friends were killed, the guy from Ichi the Killer's family were killed, Hello Kitty's family were killed... is there some sort of correlation going on here? Perhaps it would be good if my entire family were killed.
Wait, aren't they already dead? Surgery. Well, then... my spiritual guru is dead. Yeah, that's it. I arrive home one day to find that my spiritual guru has been brutally murdered by... somebody, his body rent apart and his limbs scattered around. In fact, all that's left is his legs, still standing up, with his metal penis glinting in the air for all to see.

Oh my God. Mr Gay....



NOOOOOOOOO! WHO DID THIS? I SWEAR BY THE FIVE MOONS OF ZARTHAN, I SHALL AVENGE YOU!!!!!

*Ties bandanna round head, oils up muscles, puts on mascara, picks up fork, wanders off*

Comedy Mohammed No. 7:



That's it, that's it, there isn't any more.

Does anybody know the meaning of the word meandering?

Do you know what? I can't be bothered to blog today. It's often a bad sign when I begin a post like that. It usually means that you're in for 500 words on me not having the effort required to write anything, or that I'm going to waste 500 words on some random crap that has entered my mind. Although, the last time I said "I can't be bothered to blog", I ended up writing an awesome piece about censorship, and began the "Comedy Mohammed" series, which is still going strong today. Hmm. Perhaps me saying "I can't be bothered to blog" at the beginning of a post is a good omen for the rest of the post.

Probably not this time, though. I wouldn't get your hopes up.

I'm not feeling in a particulary happy mood. I'm kind of depressed for a multitude of regions. For one, both of my grandparents, my parents, my estranged siblings and my pet ferret are all going into exciting emergency surgeries tomorrow. All at the same time. I know, shit, what ARE the odds? So I want all my hundreds of blog friends (except for that one who died last month... cunt) to pray for them. But shit, I'd better not start talking about my worries. Soon I'll be talking about my FEELINGS and before you know it, my limbs will fall off and I'll start smelling of fish and there'll just be a blubbering vagina sitting in front of the computer.

So basically, I can't be bothered to do anything but sit here in a depressed heap and listen to hardcore music. Yes, hardcore music. From a rave. I'm a raver, baby. Hardcore til I die, yo. I've realised that the distinguishing feature of hardcore music is that you can't tell when the track skips. I downloaded a corrupt version of a file and it kept repeating five seconds over and over again. I listened to it for about seven minutes before realising that something was amiss.
So far, I've sat and listened to 1.2 solid hours of raver music without stopping, including such gems as "Always Hardcore" (the guy is hardcore... always! AND HE'S NOT AFRAID TO TELL US USING THE MEDIUM OF SONG!), a techno remix of the Braveheart theme tune (No, I'm not joking... I guess it's what William Wallace strutted his funky stuff to down at the Scottish Discootheque), and a song that is a direct rip-off of the level music from the Western stage of Timesplitters Two. This is what I do instead of getting a girlfriend. Or even a picture of a girlfriend to put in my locker.

At the moment, I'm listening to the musical delight that is '24/7' by a famed DJ (this is short for "Djion Jubalee", from a french word "Jockey de la Disks") known only as "Hixxy". I bet his name is actually Melvin. Or Herbert. Or, perhaps, his mother actually named him DJ Hixxy. So his full name would be DJ Herbert Hixxy Weinstein. Because everybody knows that all rave DJs are jewish.

I have no idea where I'm going with this.

The thing I love about rave music is the STORY that's told in every single song. You can really feel what the singers are talking about, as the lyrics send you on a swooping journey of ups and downs, of light and dark, of good and evil. Seriously, Chaucer is just shit compared to the lyrics of '24/7'. For example, the woman on the track wants her 'baby' for a substantial period of time, or, as implied by the repetition of the word, "forever". We know this because it is repeated roughly seventeen times and is, probably, the only lyric in the entire song, a clever use of emphatic alliterative repetition. I could write ten-thousand words on this one song and not run out of things to say about its lyrical genius. Seriously: 24/7 = POETRY. If you too want to enjoy this song, you go into a record store and purchase the album. It's entitled "Bonkers XI".

*Twitch. Blood vessel in eye bursts at the amount of compressed irony in previous paragraph*

FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. WHO NEEDS ELEVEN ALBUMS OF HARDCORE MUSIC? AND WHY CAN'T I STOP DOWNLOADING THE SONGS? But don't worry, I've downloaded all the songs illegally from the internet, so not a pound of my money is going towards funding DJ Herbert/Hixxy/who cares and his destructive zit fetish.

I know what you're thinking. "THOMAS, IS THIS POST GOING ANYWHERE, AND WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME, AND THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A ZIT FETISH YOU SILLY MOO!!!!"

And to that I have just three things to say: No it's not, sure I will, but only if you pass my strict exam which will test fitness/intelligence/mental fitness first, and I think you'll find that zit fetishes do exist, and I have proof. God, I wish I didn't. I was surfing the net (for technologically crap people out there, ie my mother, this means "Making the magic flashing box in the study travel on exciting journeys through a magical realm to find Zit Fetish websites") and I came across such a zit fetish website.

You KNOW you want to click on this link. You don't. But you will. Just to see what a zit fetish website looks like.

In case you're a woman and are thus scared of going onto websites that don't involve pictures of a topless, oil-covered Justin Timberlake repairing a motorcycle, here's an extract, just to get those metaphorical juices flowing. Which, considering the context, probably wasn't a good choice of words:

I have broken out......again. This time in huge what SHOULD be easy to pop whiteheads along my jawline and my chin. I wait, and wait, and watch as they grow bigger, and more sore and finally, white appears! So I go to pop, I squeeze until my eyes start to water and I get a little liquid like pus. Clear liquid. What the hell?! Just this clear liquid crap?! Where is the pus??! Where is the cores that I know are in these things!?! I have these huge red marks now because of course I am constantly picking at them, squeezing, scratching trying to get ANYTHING other then this clear liquid to come out to no avail.SO ANNOYING!

I totally have the same problem. Where are the cores? WHERE ARE THEY?



Wow. Hardcore music and zit fetishists. I had no idea this post was going to turn out this way. Fuck it, that's all you're getting.

Comedy Mohammed No. 6:


More effort went into that picture than did the entire rest of the blog in its entirety. Sad, isn't it? To be honest, the combined weight of the world has fallen upon my shoulders and I would be crying myself to sleep to night, encased in a thin layer of my own excrement, if it wasn't for a faborific new word I made up today: Bottlecrotch. Bottlecrotch. It has no definition. Put it in your dictionary.

(And if you're looking for more on the Mr Gay situation, well, wait til next time. I have some horrifying and shocking news to share)

This is a very, very, very mean-spirited post

I'm going to start this off with a cliffhanger.


OH MY GOD. MR GAY HAS BEEN INJURED, POSSIBLY KILLED. HE'S LYING IN A POOL OF HIS OWN RAPIDLY CONGEALING BLOOD AND BRAIN MATTER. WHO COULD HAVE DONE SUCH A THING? WILL MR GAY SURVIVE? YOU'LL HAVE TO READ THE REST OF THIS POST VERY CAREFULLY TO FIND OUT!!1!!1!!!!!!

And now I can begin.

Wow. Check it out, I am STILL Number One on the Top Blogs Site Page. Go on. Click on the link and have a look. Of course, you'll need to press the button saying "Click here to Vote" to get in, but you don't mind that, do you? I mean, if you're still reading this after the picture of the action figure lying in a pool of his own blood then you must already be a helpless fly, trapped in the eternal web of sin and humour that is Chainsawzombie.blogspot.com. There is no escaping, so you might as well click the link. On the other hand, you might be a curious fellow top-fiver, curious as to why I've linked your blog on this post. I advise you not to read any more and pretend that I wrote something complimentary.
(I didn't).

So, I was pretty surprised at being number one. I mean, out of all the blogs on the internet, they chose ME to be the crappy number one on a crappy page that nobody gives a shit about. I mean, THIRTY THREE PEOPLE VOTED FOR ME. That's nearly a 5.07692308 × 10^(-9)th of THE ENTIRE POPULATION OF THE GLOBE. OMG I'm so popular, I'm too cool to hang around with you losers. I'm gonna go put on COOL SHADES and a LEATHER JACKET and walk about going "heyy" a lot to people. I'll date the high school cheerleader and sit on the bleachers chewing a toothpick and laughing at all the uncool kids, with their glasses and their big shoes and their buckles and braces, except for one nerd called 'nerdling' who will make me inventions to get back at our lousy dean who confiscated my iPod for listening to it in the corridor and for shattrin my buzz. Because I'm cool.

But then I had a read of the other Top 5 blogs in the "Top Blogs" list, and I realised that my competitors were all awful. Really. They were all total bleeding corn-filled shite. And that kind of popped my victory balloon with a pin of mediocrity. It's like coming first in the 100 metres at the Olympics and then turning round to congratulate your opponents, and seeing that none of them have legs and you entered the Paralympics 100 metres for people with no legs or a sense of direction, and all you'd succeeded in doing was humiliating a bunch of cripples. Don't you just hate it when that happens? I do. And therefore, as a punishment for the other blogs for being so shit and for taking the shine off my victory, I'm going to discuss each one in turn and make a bunch of undeserved, unwarranted, mean-spirited comments about them. That'll teach em for not being decent enough competition.

So, in reverse order, here are four blogs that weren't as good as mine:

4: The Trailer of Love
The tagline for this blog was "Feel The Love, 24/7", so it immediately loses some points for using the phrase "24/7", and by unfairly giving the impression that any reader is in for a rocking and rolling time in the blog 'o' fun. More points are lost when I see that he's arbitrarily shortened the title of said blog to "TOL". What, was "Trailer of Love" not snappy enough?
It then loses a million points for having possibly the shittest default blogspot.com template, and then by having some fat guy with a beard holding a coffee cups as the Blogger display picture. Scientists have done tests involving hamsters and have proved categorically that fat guys holding coffee cups do not have blogs that are rocking and rolling blogs 'o' fun. They have blogs discussing donuts, donut frostings, donut shapes, donut shops, donut fillings, how they like dunking said donuts into said coffee cups, food in general, how they're going on a diet but it's not really working because of some sort of fast-food conspiracy, or in this case, a bunch of retarded pictures. For example, his most recent post is humourously entitled "Wednesday WOAH!" In case you were wondering, this appears to be a regular feature... he just finds a random picture, sticks it on the blog, then adds two lines of commentary underneath it. Every Wednesday. Said commentary usually involves the word LOL randomly added at some point, for example:

I think it would be pretty cool with the make-up on, LOL.

What? What? What the fuck? Why are you laughing at that? You just typed a sentence that had no comic content whatsoever. What the fuck are you saying LOL for? Are you just laughing out loud for no reason? Are you chuckling wryly at the eternal comedy that is life? Is there some subtle irony involved to that sentence that I JUST DON'T SEE? Or are you just a moron?
Finally, this blog is covered in stupid HTML boxes, adverts for cafepress, the weather report in some backwater country I don't care about, more adverts for stuff, a "write to Congress" box, and about 1000 links to other blogs. Usually I find those pointless boxes at the side of blogs an annoying distraction, but in this case I was happy to have an immediate link to click on to navigate myself away from this abortion of a website.
By the way, Mr "TOL Commander", as you rakishly call yourself, you know that little html box you added that says who the visitors on your site are and what country they come from? I'm the one from England and I think your blog is shite.

3: Flatlining for 20 Years
Tagline for this is: "Sometimes personal, often subnormal".
Dictionary.com defines 'subnormal' as 'less than normal; below the average'. Which is pretty fitting, really.
The word 'girl' in the link to this blog gave me a bad feeling as soon as I saw it. I was pretty sure I was going to get a longgggggg complainy female blog full of complaints about how men are pigs and how hard it is to get along today and how kittens and horsies and flowers are nice and all the other crap that females talk about. The words "flatlining for 20 years" also implies that said female is not a girl, therefore invalidating the "Girl" part of the URL. This therefore leads me to believe that this will be the depressing whingey blog of a female who is desperate to cling onto her youth by taking lots of seductive EMOish pictures of herself and going on about random crap.

And amazingly, I WAS CORRECT.

What was the first post about? Her cat peeing on her boyfriend.
The second was a random video that I refused to play on the principle that I'm not going to waste valuable insulting time on some video on the blog of some random woman.
The third post was about the boyfriend again. He wanted to see a different film to her or something, I don't care, I didn't read it.
Fourth was about how she wants to speak Japanese blah blah blah blah blah.

This blog, too, was full of random links to sites that nobody gives a shit about. Her Amazon wishlist led to an exciting page full of random femaley books that nobody is ever going to buy her. The first book is called PERIOD. The fourth is called WOMEN. When I got to Change your Underwear Twice a day: The Golden Age of Classroom Filmstrips, I gave up and stabbed myself through the temple with a fork.
I always wondered what kind of retarded nitwits bought such literature. Now I know.

2: Fifth Circle of Cubic Hell
I often tend to judge blogs by the people who comment on them. Often, the intelligence of the commenters reflects the general interllect of the blogger. I mean, the commenters on this blog are usually quite smart (SOMETIMES EVEN THE WORDS ARE SPELT CORRECTLY!), in an 'insulting me' way. Therefore, I must be smart and like to make fun of myself. OH MY GOD I'M RIGHT. WOAH!!! I should write a Thesis on that. Unfortunately, I have a life, so I can't. Perhaps TOL COMMANDER would do it for me. He sounds like the kind 'o guy with lots of time on his pudgy, donut covered hands.
Anyway, if my theory is true, then the blogger of Fifth Circle of who gives a shit lives behind a thick sheet of perspex in a mockup jungle somewhere, being fed pre-sliced mango by hand by zookeepers as he drools into his fur.
All this blog is is a series of those shitty email forwarded pictures, jokes, and cartoons with a general relation to the workplace (below an admittedly awe-inspiring animated title... woah). All the creative input the bloggers on this site have is the title of each post, which is usually along the lines of 'LOL THIS IS TEH FUNNAY!"
That's it. If there was any justice, this blog would have crashed and burned like the waste of space it is. AND YET, EVERY SINGLE POST IS FOLLOWED BY THE SAME FIVE PEOPLE COMMENTING HOW FUNNY IT IS. And not a 'Hmm, I like the verbal wordplay in that joke" kind of comment. No. It's always LOL!!!!11!1 or ROTLF!!!!!! or LMAO!!!!!!. And they always always ALWAYS contain non-ironic exclamation marks. I didn't even know that people used non-ironic question marks any more. It's like the commenters never seen that picture of the computer flying out the window before. Christ.
Honestly, its like somebody just taught the fuckwits who comment on that blog how to type, but only those three phrases, and so they just bash em out time and time again until the buttons on the keyboard splinter and their fingers are worn down to bleeding blackened stumps of bone and flesh and they're forced to type using their tongues.
I once got so sick of this that I added a comment saying that the blog was like "A hyena convention". The response? "LOL, ZOMBIE!!".
IT WASN'T A COMPLIMENT, YOU BINT. I HOPE YOU FALL INTO A RADIOACTIVE POND AND DIE OF CANCER OF THE FACE.

1: Strip Search City
I was physically unable to read much of this site, but from what I gather, its another of those waste of space sites about females complaining about how shit their lives are. Well move to Africa and marry a giraffe if you're so miserable, woman. It's also one of those sites with a quote from an obscure movie that nobody's heard of at the top, in some kind of attempt to make the blogger in question look unique and smart. Well, it doesn't work. I could type out the President's inspiring speech from the end of Independent Day at the top of my blog, but do I? NO.

There's not much else to say about this blog really, except that it's a waste of valuable internet space that could better be taken up with aardvark porn or archives of pictures of Tony Blair's body badly photoshopped onto that of a lady in a bikini. Waste. Of. Space. Well, except for one post that made me chuckle:

"To all my blog friends, I ask one thing. Please keep me & my family in your thoughts over the next few days. My grandparents are going in for emergency surgeries today and tomorrow. The outlook is not so good, and they just need all the good thoughts and wishes their way."

Is it wrong that I laughed at that? What the hell is a 'blog friend'? And why are both of her grandparents going for surgery over the same weekend? Did they get a 'two for one' offer or something? A coupon? Collected enough box tops? Or did they both fall off a barge, and both impale themselves on the same pole? I'd like to know the true story behind that. And if your grandparents actually died, well, I'm sorry, but you shouldn't have posted that up on the internet for all and sundry to make fun of.

* * *

Now can you see why I'm so pissed off? I mean, Christ, it was hardly win of the century, was it? At this juncture, I'd like to repeat my analogy of winning a race against cripples, but I just want to make one alteration: All the cripples have Downes syndrome too. And that disease when they're scared of wide open spaces. Yeah.

If I've insulted your blog on this site and would like to insult me back, here are a few choice cusses to use on me:

• I don't have a girlfriend.


• I'm only 17 so I haven't had all the crushing life experience that's turned you into the interesting and fascinating people you are today.


• I'm a big poo-poo face.


• I don't have a girlfriend.


• This is probably because I spend all my time writing posts insulting your blogs.


• I'm basically emotionally immature, which is why I don't think that everything you say is fascinating.


• I smell.


• Every time I look in a mirror I have to break it because I'm just too damn handsome.

Go on, knock yourselves out.

(Do you know what will be really embarassing? If, during the time between me last looking at the top blogs list and me typing this, one of the other shit blogs has overtaken me. God, how droll. Well, my points still stand: all the competition is shite).

Comedy Mohammed No. 5:



And, uh, if you were wondering about what happened to Mr Gay, well... tune in next post to find out! Actually, if you re-read this post VERY carefully, you'll notice that I've scattered some subtle clues into the text which might point you in the right direction. Very very subtle clues.

This will be the most magnificant post ever

A lot of exciting things have happened to me recently...

I traumatised my dogs!
I came FIRST in my boatie race and won a shiny gold medal! And a shinier trophy!
I managed to stay in the 2nd Eight!
I had some driving lessons!
I wrote a poem!
I started using exclamation marks again!
I watched an entire series of Brass Eye!
I didn't go to Fati's ninja party!
I went on a double date with TWO (admittedly, ugly) girls!
I saw Final Destination one AND three! And in an hour and a bit, two!
I went to Cambridge University!
I looked at all the uber-fit ladies at Cambridge University!
I did a five point turn in my sexy yellow car, totally owning any three point turners out there!
I found out about Mr Gay's traumatic and shady past!
I taught somebody not to say LOL any more!
I drank TWO cups of hot beverage with marshmellows on top!
I accidentally stabbed myself in the hand with a pen!
I listened to the Ricky Gervais/Noel Gallagher version of "Freelove Freeway" thirteen times in a row!
I failed to do any French Coursework!
I talked to a girl on the phone!
I was number one on Tom's Top Blogs for an entire week!*
I GOT A NEW iPOD!

I did all those things, and yet, incredibly, I still can't be bothered to blog at all. Sorry to all my peeps out there. Oh my God, I can't believe that I just used the word 'peeps'. I feel so dirty.

To curb the bitter sense of disappointment seeping through your collective consciousness at the sight of this pathetic (but admittedly, still better written than most of the shit on the internet) excuse for a blog, here are TWO count em TWO comedy Mohammed pictures, as a special treat for all you blasphemers out there:

Comedy Mohammed Number 3:



Comedy Mohammed Number 4:



Hurray!

*Vote for me on Monday. You KNOW you want to.

Welcome to your weekly Wednesday post

I took my driving theory test today. I passed with flying colours. Sorry to spoil the suspense (I bet you were all looking forward to a post full of dramatic tension... will he do it? Will he pass? Will he fail? Will he sneeze violently and expell all his nasal lining in an explosive and probably bloody blast of flying tissue?), but I don't really think that you deserve that much effort being poured into a blog for you. Plus, there would have been no real suspense anyway. We all knew that I was gonna pass. Duh.

The first thing to note in this story is that the test took place in Staines. Staines is a shithole. I mean, they have a statue devoted to some WORKERS IN A LINO FACTORY. For fuck's sake. It's also full of fat pikeys. This has no relevance to the rest of the tale, it's just an observation I made as I was walking through the town center. Lots. Of. Fat. Pikeys. Most of them were also ugly, short, eight years old and wearing synthetic white bodysuits. Being tall, handsome and rich, I quite feared for my life as they congragated like a bunch of lower class avians in a Hitchcock film, their small piggy eyes digging into my soul, possibly in search of drugs or chocolate. Fortunately, I managed to flee into the abandoned barn where my test was to take place before they could rip me limb from limb and feast on my no doubt yumsome organs.

The theory test is all done on touch screen computers (wow, the wonderous age of technology that we live in, eh?) split into two distinct, yet equally compelling, sections:

The Multiple Choice bit
Pretty straightforward. They give you a question and four or so possible answers, you click on the correct one(s), move to the next. 35 to do in 40 minutes.
This is possibly the easiest piece of piss test ever. A seven year old muslim prophet with learning problems could pass this thing without much thought. No matter how easy you think it may be, it's about fifteen times easier than that. It's easier than your mother on a hot day in June.
There's a standard practise for doing each question. First, you read the question. Then you laugh and read it again just to make sure it was as easy as you thought it was. Then you read the answers. The right answer should be pretty obvious; all you do is choose the one containing the words 'slow down' or 'give him plenty of room'. For some reason the DSA (Dog Segue Antibiotics) is obsessed with making their drivers slow down. I bet they'd be happier if we all just sat in our cars and PRETENDED to drive, giving each other lots of room. They love their safety at the DSA (Dry Scimitar Aphrodite). There's this one question where they ask what you'd do if your car breaks down on the train tracks and there appears to be no train coming. They advise 'Get out of the car safely and wait'. For some reason they count the safety of a couple of pointless passengers as being more important than my car and the front of the train and the entire British rail transport system. Fuck that, I'll be choosing 'Push your car off the tracks' as soon as possible. Dickheads.
If you don't know the correct answer straight away, just subract all the retarded 'wrong' answers. These are usually comically wrong (if you see horses on the road, honk your horn at them and accelerate round them ASAP), or contain the words 'accelerate' or 'as quickly as you can'. The DSA (Drum So And) hates the idea of accelerating even more than they love the idea of giving cyclists room.
If you STILL don't know, just take yourself to the woodshack out back and put a shotgun barrel in your mouth. There is obviously no hope for you.
Once you know the answer, just press the screen and it lights up. Then spend a few seconds giggling at the touchscreen technology and selecting every single button on the screen just for the fun of it. Cos touchscreen is C-O-O-L. Like in Star Trek. Is Star Trek cool? Ok, it's C-O-O-L like in one of those socially acceptable Sci-Fis that I actually watch. Like Star Wars? No. Gattaca? No. Shaun of the Dead. I know that it's not a Sci-Fi and it contains no slidy touch screen stuffs but, hey, it's a cool film.
Yeah.
I also decided to purposefully get one question wrong. This was definitely not a mistake on my part, I just didn't want the test setters to feel sad that I'd totally pwned them in my testage. I'm a kind guy. I repeat: I definitely didn't get the following question wrong on purpose. It was alllll intentional:

It is illegal to drive with tyres that...
1: have been bought second hand.
2: have a large deep cut on the side wall.
3: are of different makes.
4: are of different tread patterns.

I ticked answer '3'. Apparently it was 2. Yeah whatever who cares. Bothered?
I blasted through this 40 minute test in literally four and a half minutes. After checking every answer twice and stroking my enormous ego, I decided "Fuck yeah, time for Hazard Perception!" I whooped like an indian, threw on my headphones, and watched a very informative video with some man in a nice suit.

Hazard perception
Basically I had no fucking clue what I was doing with Hazard Perception. I had no idea beforehand so I gained myself a "teach yourself how to do the Hazard Perception test DVD". The first thing to point out about this DVD is that it was presented by the multi-talented SUZI PERRY, most beautiful woman on Earth:


Yes, she can ride motorbikes, be the lady on Treasure Hunt AND present driving videos, ALL AT ONCE. My heroine.

The second thing to note is that it contained very little information about the Hazard Perception test. Instead, it had FORTY FIVE FUCKING MINUTES of Suzi telling me how to not crash into things, and interviewing "Darren", some wanker with a silly haircut and a squeaky voice who was nervous about doing his theory test. Loser. When that was finished, the DVD spat me out into the opening page and said "HA HA, YOU WANT HELP? YOU'LL HAVE TO WATCH THE DVD AGAIN AND GET THE FOUR LETTER PASS CODE". Sigh. But eventually I beat the code out of the DVD by attaching electrodes to its nipples and massaging the tip of its urethra with a soldering iron, and I found out some interesting things about the Hazard Perception test:

• You watch 14 clips, each showing the POV of a car driving down a road and having wild and crazy adventures.


• Each clip shows a 'developing hazard' of some sort, be it a car pulling into the road, a child running into the road, a mounted suicide bomber charging you with a sword and grace of God, somebody signalling to cross your path, a bathtub full of geese falling from a high building into the path of a cyclist, etc.


• It also shows numerous standard hazards, which means "Basically anything else on the road, be it other cars, pedestrians, walls, trees, signs, the road itself, the sky, a cow in a field far far off in the horizon, rain, a leaf blowing across the road, you know, whatever..."


• You gain points for clicking the mousse in time for the "Developing hazards"


• You can also click for the non-developing hazards. However, it's not explained whether or not you gain points for clicking these.


• So basically you just click however much you like and hope to hell that you're correct.


• If you click too many times, a screen will come up saying "You clicked too many times, you answered this test in an inccorect manner, you get no points for this clip, you fucking dickhead."

So honestly, all I'd found out was that I should click whenever I saw anything, but not to click too much. I was a bit confused, so I decided that the safest thing to do was to take up the tactic of "Just click everytime you see anything moving".

This turned out to be a good idea, and actually made the test jolly exciting. It was like that bit in Resident Evil 4 when I'm in a minecart and all the villagers keep leaping into it and every time I see one moving I gotta blast him outta the air but HOLY SHIT his head just turned into a mass of worms and FUUCK there's the chainsaw man... DUCK! FLASH GRENADE!!! Yeah, it was like that.

So I'm driving in my car and I'm like "HOLY SHIT, PEDESTRIAN!"
*Click*
"WATCH OUT, SIGNALLING CAR AT ONE O'CLOCK!"
*CLICK*
"Cyclist!*
*Click*
"HOLY FUCKING GOD, IT LOOKS LIKE THAT CAR WANTS TO PULL OUT, CLICK THE FUCKING MOUSE NOW IF YOU WANT TO LIVE!"
*CLICK*!!!!
"THERE'S A CAT! GET IT!!!!!!!"
*CLICKKY*. And then the test finished and I fell to the floor. I then got up and filled in the customer service review thing. Everything was "Satisfactory". Excellent.

Phew. When it was over, I collapsed back in my seat, an exhausted and deadened man. But then it turned out that I'd passed, which makes me instantly more qualified at driving and life than anybody else who reads this blog. You hear that, you losers? I'M MORE QUALIFIED THAN YOU!!! I WIN AND YOU DON'T!

More shortly.

Comedy Mohammed No. 2:


I have made dozens of these pictures now. Prepare yourselves for the long haul.

Oh mother, what hast thou donest?

A week has gone by since my last blog and I still can't be arsed to write another one. Sorry people, you'll have to do without my bloggy goodness for another few months. I mean, I could write something about how my mother found out about the last blog and asked me to 'wipe it off the internet' (her words, not mine). I'd casually mentioned it to her over our dinner of cutlets and onion gravy, and she'd done some high-tech cyber-snooping to find out the extent of the damage to society I'd caused (she asked my Dad for his opinion on it, and he said it was "a bit strong"). She feared that posting a crappy made up picture of Mohammed and making lots of 'Mohammed is gay' insinuations would somehow lead to Muslims (or as they're known in America, "Moslems") getting annoyed at me.
And in my mother's brain, Muslims angered at a picture they see on some crappy blog in the middle of teh internets = angry Muslims attacking our house and burning it down. Now, you think I'm joking, but no. That was honestly her fear, that we were in some serious personal risk. I considered arguing and reasoning with her, using many many reasoned arguments:

1: I tried to dazzle her with technology. This should be pretty easy; my mother is about as technologically advanced as Edward and Tubbs from League of Gentleman. Actually, perhaps that's unfair. I mean, she's rightly an expert at using the iron, oven, vacuum cleaner, washing machine, and other such womanly apparatus. However, when it comes to man things with shiny buttons and flashing lights (like Computers, The Internet, Tape Players, Mobile Phones or Digital Watches), she fails abysmally. Usually I can confuse her with made up technical vocab until she goes away, eg:

Mother: Come and lay the table.
Me: Sorry, can't, I'm trying to reformat the Hard Drive on my computer but it keeps freezing, I think it's a type 2 kernal error, I'll need to go into disk mode and input /sbin/fsck -y to clear the bug or else the entire RAM is going to have a type 2 BSOD meltdown!
Mother: Oh. *Explodes*
(Ok, I made that up a bit. I have a Mac, so to be honest it never would freeze or break at all. That bit was an exaggeration.)

So I tried to persuade out that there was no way that the terrorists would possibly read it amongst the billions of other web pages out there. She fired back "But isn't your blog listed now?" I couldn't be bothered to even try and figure out what the hell meant by that, so I went immediately onto argument two:

(This is just for any slow females out there who are unable to comprehend reading for more than two minutes without something other than me to lust over... some Braddy goodness)



2: Everybody else on the internet is making up Mohammed pictures now: I used the good old 'tu quoque' argument to throw her off the scent. I told her that EVERYBODY was making Mohammed cartoons now, and that mine was relatively tame compared to what else was out there. I assumed that she'd just take my word for it on, me being the Internet Expert of the house. But no. She wanted proof, for Chrissakes. So I was forced to type "Mohammed Cartoon" into Google images to highlight this issue. She wasn't convinced by this argument, as "These cartoons only make fun of arabs in general and yours is about Mohammed". Apparently, in her mind, there's an important difference. I sighed, then went onto argument three:

3: Trick her with technology: I opened Safari, showed her my site on it for a second, then closed Safari again. "There," I said. "I deleted it. See? It's gone."
I was about 50% sure that this would work. It didn't. Damn her, I thought, she's starting to get techno-literate. Soon she'll be able to use the radio in the car without driving off the side of a cliff. Shit. Better quickly move onto argument 4:

4: Explain it: Do you know, it's totally impossible to explain the concepts of 'irony', 'hyperbole', 'extremist humour' and 'context' to your mother without feeling like an inexorably wanky pseudo-interlectual cunt? She just stares at you and all the references to Chris Morris and the great satirists just die in your throat and you end up muttering "It's like a joke, not serious, you know? Yeah...", or just repeating "Irony... irony... irony... irony" ad nauseum, kind of to yourself. You then start to doubt yourself. Thinking about it, was it really a good idea to make a picture of Mohammed? Is it clever to make fun of people? Shit, I should probably apologise to everybody, and FAST.
Before long, you've ripped yourself in two and you're a gibbering mess of giblets and malformed skin goblets, oozing all over the designer slate floor. The only chance? Flee to argument 5:

5: Just kind of swear a lot: Pretty self explanatory. Stand there looking ruffled and curse heartily. I have yet to find a person against whom this argument works. I think it's because I'm too polite to use it on somebody who would actually be upset by it. It certainly doesn't work with my mother, who, after three years of me and bro cursing solidly like troopers day in, day out, has built up a certified bio-immunity to even the foulest of swears. Except the C word. That's her kryptonite, but I'm too scared of her unholy female wrath to ever break out that bad boy in front of her. Swearing didn't work. So I finally resorted to argument 6:

6: Lie. A bit: Irritatingly, it's impossible to win a fight with my mother without resorting to common liery, which annoys me, because it's against my personal moral code. I'm actually quite an honest person. Well, sort of. I'm moral when I know that I can't get away with it. The upshot of this is that I find it unpossible to tell a sustained to my momma. I can make fun of her and belittle her and patronise her all I want, but for some reason, I can't lie. The best I can do is tell the truth, but not the truth that she's looking for. In this case, I said "Ok, FINE, I'll write another one to cover it and then it won't be up any more."
Well, that's kind of true. I was going to write another post. Not straight away, of course. And it would probably be as equally offensive and anti-foreigners as the last one, possibly with more pictures of Mohammed dressed in thongs and tassles. I just assumed that that would be enough to shut her up. And it was. Kind of. She walked off.

I thought that was all it was to it. I should have shut up then. I should have just relished my tiny victory. But no. I just had to go and find a meat-stick and poke that sleeping dog in the eye, just for fun. I wandered downstairs and, seeing mother drawing things on a piece of paper with a pencil, told her that I'd seen an angry mob of muslims with torches trying to burn down the car. WHY DID I DO THIS? WHY? WHAT POSSESSED ME? She was unamused, and I got another lecture about personal responsibility and how disappointed she was with my total lack of judgement (nb: she still hadn't read the blog in question at this point). The upshot of this is that I'm not allowed to make any more pictures of Mohammed. Yes, people, I have been censored for the first time by my mother. This is a sad sad day.

Well, I guess that I should be used to being censored by now. The school newspaper refused to publish my report on the year's sporting activities thusfar because apparently it was 'too extreme'. I don't see their point, all I did was run through the various sports and activies on offer in a concise way. For example, I praised the rowers for their strength and commitment. Nothing wrong with that. And I think that most of the school would agree with my point that "Table tennis is a true sport for retards". And then I said that the cricketers reminded me of the stormtroopers from Star Wars. And I claimed that rugby was a sport for fat retards who liked to jump on each other in a field. And I said that our football team was all homosexuals.

I bet that that's what it was, actually. You make ONE comment about the homosexuality of the football team and you're immediately marked down as 'an extremist'. Fucking Nazis. What annoys me is that they refuse to publish my well written, amusing article, but happily print little pink Paul's wanky essay on basketball. I quote:

"However, as if a proverbial mirror has been placed next to the Hampton basketball season, our fortunes have been flipped upside down... or back to front as the metaphor implies... currently 4 to 0 (to those unfamiliar with basketball terminology, which from experience, is practically everybone - it's a shame right? - that means we've won four games and lost, yes you guessed it! A big, fat, round, ominous, but strangely gratifying ZERO - excuse me while my ego expands..."

For fuck's sake. And it goes on like that. What the fuck is that? It's more wanky than a bukkake party in the wankiest portion of Japan during wanky season after a forced weeklong period of chastity.
Oh well, at least if I have the satisfaction of knowing that if I write an extreme article, I do a properly extreme article. I don't just do a crappy non-extreme article with a few extreme bits in it. I mean, if you cut out every sentence that contains a somewhat risqué reference to another sport, sexual innuendo, insulting comment about a fellow pupil, or claim that our school is a hotbed of fear, rape and violence, it slices my 700 word piece to less than 230 words of 'proper report.' That's some good offendin', right there.

Anyway, no more pictures of Mohammed. That's what I said, wasn't it? Shocking. But there's a loophole here, aint there? I can make pictures of people and inanimate objects with names kind of similar to Mohammed, just to be a rebel and break my enforced censorship. But that would just be silly and immature, wouldn't it?

So thus begins the "Comedy Mohammed Series" (I wonder if anybody else in the world has ever put those three words together), which will go on until I lose interest in making pictures, the joke gets boring, or I run out of things to rhyme with "Moe". Whichever comes first.

Comedy Mohammed Number 1:


Take that, Hitler!

"Muslims are stupid," -- Alison

Well, the other day I was reading the BBC news website, as I do DAILY, when I noticed a somewhat promising headline: Embassies burn in Cartoon Protest. "Hmm", I thought to myself "This could be interesting. Has Daffy finally snapped and invaded France? Or is the the Smurfs? Have they lost it and have decided to take on Denmark with flame and violence? Or perhaps Woody Woodpecker, sick of all the racial abuse, excrement throwing and gang rapage he's had to endure, has finally released his internal pyromaniac and razed Yugoslavia to the ground?"
Well, I clicked on the story, and as it turned out, it was the Smurfs after all, or as they're more commonly known nowadays, "Crazy Fundamentalist Islamic Extremists".
Apparently they were all offended by some mean cartoons of Mohammed published in a newspaper, and decided that the best course of action was to go and burn down the nearest embassy, which in this case, happened to be the Denmark's, before progressing to the Norweigan one. Who knows where they might go next? Lithuania? Moldova? Belarus? Finland? Oh God, not FINLAND. ANYTHING BUT FINLAND. Hey, and you never know where this could lead. Perhaps in a couple of years of solid burning, these guys might reach the embassy of a country that somebody gives a shit about.

Here's one of the pictures that the little blue fellas are complaining about:



I don't see what the problem is. It's not like it's a particulary insulting picture. They just drew Mohammed with a birthday cake on his head. I mean, I know that it's some kind of taboo to print pictures of Mohammed, but if I remember my Koran correctly, it says that it's bad to print pictures of ANY prophet, not just Moohammerhead. So where's the anger with all the pictures of Jebus floating around? OMG I just went onto a website that showed Jebus smoking a cigar and shooting midgets with an AK47. Right. That's it. I've had enough of this idolatory, I'm off to burn down the Latvian embassy. Don't try and stop me.

Thing is, I enjoy the burning down the embassies of shitty European countries as much as the next red-blooded male, but this sort of behaviour really annoys me. It just seems to be a mass reaction of people unable to take a joke. And that's like my number one peeve in life: people unable to take jokes properly. Like that fat girl at Lucia's party. I accidentally joked that she was fat, not meaning it, then she screamed me out of the house. She was unable to take the comment at whimisical face value, and so therefore she will forever be immortalised as 'that fat girl at Lucia's party'. It's my life's work to spread the message of 'that fat girl'. She doesn't even have a name. Like a sumo wrestler. Or a kraken. Or that whale in the Thames.

Where was I? Oh yeah... IT WAS A FUCKING CARTOON IN A NEWSPAPER YOU DICKHEADS. It wasn't even that decent a picture (he doesn't even have a mouth... some prophet), but you guys HAD to make a fuss and throw your toys out of the pram, and now everybody on the surface of the globe has seen it. And anyway, you fellows monumentally missed the point of said cartoon in the first place.

And thus the lesson begins. What was said point of said cartoon in said newspaper? To make fun of the way that a bunch of stupid cunts have taken the idea of the Religion of Peace and have turned it into a fecken N64 Goldeneye Deathmatch (10 minutes, Archives, Grenade Launchers, four players, rumble pacs). And what is the reaction to this? Do you quietly sulk? Do you write irritated letters beginning "Dear Sir" to the paper in question? Do you HELL. You go burn down random buildings. Well done, lads. No, seriously, way to make your religion not look violent. No, honestly, I'm in awe. Woaaaah, duuuude. Imagine a face of a really impressed beaver, right, then times the impressedness by a million, then pretend that he's looking at something monumentally, colossally intelligent and impressive, then times it by infinite-billion again. THAT'S how impressed I am by this MAG-FUCKING-NIFICENT bit of logical thinking. No, well done. Clap clap. I'm. Speechless. So. I'm. Using. Full. Stops. Between. Words. And. Even. Hal. F. Way. Th. R. Ough. Individua. L. Words.

And how do the authorities react to this whinging? They fire everybody who put the picture in the paper and make like fifteen apologies to the whingers. Pah. If I was in charge of the world, that cartoon would be printed up on posters and stuck all over the place, with the words "THIS IS WHY YOU CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS, YOU FUCKTARDS" written on them. In arabic, which is like a backwards version of real writing. This posters would be everywhere, I'd tattoo it into the side of elephants, have planes pulling banners of it across the sky, I'd tell all the barbers to shave it into the beards of the men and have haberdashers stitch it into the dishcloths that all the ladies wear on their heads. Fucking teach them to not have a sense of humour about these things. Then maybe next time they'll think twice before messin' wit my freedom of speech.
Man, I can't wait til I own my own newspaper. We won't take shit from nobody. That's what it'll be called: The Sunday-We-Don't-Take-Shit-From-Nobody-Express-Mail.

Because that's what it all boils down to, these twats think can mess with my right to say or write or draw whatever the fuck pops into my head and then have people look at it. If they had their way, we wouldn't have some of the great literature and the great music of the world. Just imagine it; a planet without the final novel of Stephen King's Dark Tower series when we find out that all seven books were totally pointless, or without the soothing chords of Linkin Park's Magnum Opus "Meteora", or without the soul-searing cinematic poetry of the Wayan brothers. But you think that's bad? Just try to imagine a world without Liberty X or Big Momma's House 2. Just try it. A hell, that's what it would be. A total living hell. I'd rather die. And that's what the terrorists want. They want to take away everything that makes life worth living. THEY WANT TO TAKE AWAY OUR KANYE WEST, OUR JIM CARREY, OUR WESTLIFE! Bastards.
Well I won't stand for it. I DEMAND ARTISTIC FREEDOM. Just to spite the entire Islamic religion, I'm not going to stop making millions of wire men then leaving them around school. Never! It is now a political movement. I shall do whatever I want and claim it's art! And I'm certainly not gonna let them take away my ability to pose my Batman action figures in suggestive homosexual poses and them take photos to share with the world.



Ha HA. And you know what Blue Batman is thinking? "Wow, Ninja Bruce Wayne is so hot. It's a pity that Mohammed isn't here to share in our gay threesome. Because Mohammed is homosexual. He's a big poof with a silly beard. And you know why they won't let us take photos of him? Because he wears eyeliner. And makeup. And concealing blusher. That's right. He's a big makeup wearing poof. And a cross-dresser. But what a tight ass."

That was BATMAN talking, so if you're offended, take up your quarrel with him. Keep me outta it.

Obligitory "why can't we all get along?" bit
Of course, I know that most Islamics aren't crazy fundamentalists. Many of them are just normal people, like you or me. Well, not like me. I'm the fucking Two-Man in the winning Hampton Head Boat. We beat the nearest competition by almost 8 seconds. I'm like a rowing God amongst men. It should be idolatrous to make a picture of ME, never mind Mooooohammey... Plus, my nose is normal sized, and I wouldn't look good with a beard and a silly hat. But that changes nothing - those foreigners are probably just normal people just like you lot. They didn't want to go burn down the Lithuanian embassy. They didn't even want to make a tiny scale model of the Lithuanian embassy and throw hot pieces of blu-tak at it. They probably see the essential dickheadnessitude of burning down buildings to protect the non-violent reputation of your religion. No, this post is aimed at the crazed fundamentalist morons. I know that there are a couple who read this blog between bombing raids (What up, Abd Al-Baqi Al-Karim! Keep commenting! You too, Anon!)

And finally, I'd just like to point out the victim in all of this. Not the Danish - who gives a shit about them? - But Mohammed himself, who's been forced to watch it all from his underground love shack, with Jesus and that blue Hindu guy with the arms. Because who knows what he has to say about this entire sorry affair? He doesn't have a mouthpiece in the world. They don't even show his picture. They get all angry and offended and jihaddy if you even make a picture of him. So I made a picture of him:



Well, I don't think that any of us expected him to say that.

OMG I JUST MADE A PICTURE OF MOHAMMED! I'M GOING TO HELLS!!!!1!!1 CLAM!!1!. Well, to all you islamic fundamentalist jackoffs out there, if you feel like blowing something else up, do your worst. You know where to find me. I'll be waiting with my C4 and my big pile of pork, and I will be sorely disappointed if this blog isn't a smouldering heap of debris by Wednesday. SORELY DISAPPOINTED. Yes, I herebye declare a jihad on myself. Confused? You should be.

How the hell do you spell idolatrous?

You know, I never thought that I'd want them to take boobs OFF the television, but...

There is this tv show on right now about these eight year olds who ARE STILL BREAST FED BY THEIR MOTHERS.
They, like, go up to their mums and pull out the tits then just take a big swig. Then they lie there like huge fat slugs on their mothers' laps, sucking away at those nipples. I mean, on the principle of the thing, I'm not against women getting out their boobs in public and hanging small children off of them. I can see that it could be fun. And if there were fit 15 year old girls doing the breast-sucking, well, I guess that that concept has potential. But it's not like it's even sexy. The mothers have these huge distorted, distended fat veiny udders topped by huge twisted nipples the size of plums and the colour of week old blood blisters. And the children are always FAT. Fat and ugly.

Eugh.

EUGH.

Every time I glance at the TV screen, I see these women and their babies. FOR GOD'S SAKE, WOMAN, STOP IT. PUT THE FUCKING THINGS AWAY. YOU ARE NOT 21 ANY MORE, YOUR BOOBS ARE NOT GORGEOUS LITTLE APPLES OF FIRM TENDER WOMANFLESH, THEY ARE GIANT SAINSBURY'S BAGS FULL OF CLOUDY JELLY AND THREE-DAY-OLD SHEEP'S INTESTINES, AND YOUR MILK IS A POISONED AND FETID BILE THAT CONGEALS IN THE STOMACHS OF YOUR FAT LITTLE PIG DARLINGS AND GIVES THEM EXPLOSIVE BOWL-FLUID AND ROTS AWAY THE WALLS OF THEIR SPHINCTERS.

Look, this little cunt child came on. It's crying. "Mum... I want milk!" it says, in its horrible RP accent. It's crying. Shut up, kid. Oh, wait, we've gone to an upper class mother getting out her upper class tit to give her upper class baby a drink of upper-class booby-milk. That's another thing, how come all these women and children are all so bloody rich? They all talk in upper class accents, received pronounciation, and say things like 'darlings' and 'mummy'. They all have names like Prunella and Jasmine and Esquire and things and they all live in massive houses.

This just begs the question: why do poor people not breast feed their children to the age of 8? I'll tell you why: Poor people are not fucking stupid. They don't have the money to waste on some stupid fat brat-child who demands to be breastfed up til puberty. They need the baby to go out and mine coal down the shaft at the age of three. And how many miners still need to be breastfed every twenty minutes or they start crying and shit themselves? A very small percentage, that's what. You can't mine if you're being breastfed: that's what the lower classes have realised and that's why poor babies don't get breastfed long. In fact, in many cases they don't get breastfed at all: the mothers have already sold their breastmilk to United Milk Co for Crack money, and the babies are fed with dust and wasps and the juice you get from crushed earthworms. And the babies have to catch those earthworms themselves or, you know, they just don't eat.
Whereas the stupid fucking rich cunts on this program can just spend time and money bringing up another generation of pussy mummy's boy baby twats who will never survive by themselves in the outside world, so don't go to school, don't have sex, never get a job and won't leave home til the age of 34, and then only to move next door because the mother wants to convert their bedrooms into an S&M dungeon.

Christ on a bike.

And I wish that these fucking women would stop whining on that it's a huge social injustice, and people are more uncomfortable with the female body 'doing a natural thing... feeding our children, raising the next generation', than they are with a fit naked 20 year old jiggling about on page 3.
To this, I have only three responses:

1: Of course I'm more comfortable with the fit naked 20 year old than you, you dried out old milk-harpy. What are you, fucking stupid? You look like the Elephant Man's twin sister, after having her face beaten in with a tyre-iron then plastered over with inch thick makeup. Makeup made of glass and concrete and spiders.
2: Feeding eight year olds at your breast is not natural. By doing so, you are not aiding the survival of the species. The moment your spawn gains the ability to drink cow's milk and eat banana mush, they no longer need your distended hell-teat. Your eight year old can drink cow's milk and can definitely eat banana mush. Hell, perhaps he's advanced to melon mush (better not rush it though, darling Geoffrey-Callum is such a gifted child but, you know, don't wanna push him over the edge... pretty soon he'll be wanting to leave the house without your express permisson). Now STOP IT.
3: The only reason that you're still breastfeeding is because you have a pathetic and obsessive compulsion to stay forever young and to forever be the new-mother to your children. It's a fucking selfish thing to do, and no matter how much you blather on about how your baby 'loves the breast' and how much of a joint activity it is, its just you being an egotistical bitch who refuses to die, and guess what? Your children probably already hate you and they're going to leave home as soon as possible, become very rich selling their story to Jerry Springer, and probably send hitmen to cut off your breasts then beat you over the head with them. And even if that doesn't kill you, guess what? In twenty year's time, you'll probably die of cancer. Or of liver-spots. Or of rheumatism or of a heart attack or whatever the hell it is that old people tend to die of, and at your funeral your children will spit and throw rocks at your coffin because you were a shit parent and you fucked them up in the head by mollycoddling them and by treating them like they were babies and good GOD I hope you all burn in an eternal hell you fucking udder-cows.

Oh, joy. This one udder woman, having realised that little Wayne wasn't going to breastfeed forever, decided to adopt a little Chinese kid to love and ply with milk until he leaves home. I just saw her trying to feed little Ping-Pong of whatever the hell his name was. AND HE REJECTED HER OUTRIGHT. He even started crying then crawled away, possibly to hang himself. Ha HAH, lady, your boobs were rejected by an Asian. Can there be any lower degradation?

In conclusion, I've decided that we need more nice breasts on TV to make up for the ugly ones. In fact, lets just cut out the ugly ones all together.

Well, at least I learnt two things from that show.
1: The average age for weaning in the UK is four years.
2: Sometimes, forced euphanasia is justified. Very justified. Vital, even.