Green Wing is back on TV

My précis of the average episode of Green Wing:

*Slow motion walking of doctors/nurses*
*Annoying music plays*
Random thing happens.
*Annoying music plays*
*Slow motion walking of doctors/nurses*
*Annoying music plays*
Random thing happens, probably effectuated by a character wearing a silly costume of some kind. Like a fin. HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA.
*Annoying music plays*
*Slow motion walking of doctors/nurses*
*Annoying music plays*
Character appears, doing something wild, wacky, and random. Like they walk with a stoop for no reason. HAHAHAHHAHAHA! No stop, somebody PLEASE help me, my sides are fucking splitting! My KIDNEY JUST FELL OUT! OH MY GOD, I'M GOING TO NEED DIALYSIS! HAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAA.
*Annoying music plays*
*Slow motion walking of doctors/nurses*
*Annoying music plays*
Character runs into the room and does something random and says something KERAZY!!! Or perhaps they'll make a silly sound and walk slowly out of the room with a silly walk! LOL!!!! I'm laughing so hard I just prolapsed. What a mess.
*Annoying music plays*
*Slow motion walking of doctors/nurses*
*Annoying music plays*
Man with blonde hair slowly walks across the screen. Turns, looks at the screen, winks. Nothing else happens.
*Annoying music plays*
*Slow motion walking of doctors/nurses*
*Annoying music plays*

The end.

Green Wing is shit.

Comedy Mohammed No. 16:

Hey look, a Pokémon joke!

A bad idea

Our history teacher, who looks a little like a bald version of your favorite teddy bear, told us a fascinating story the other day. Apparently in his old college (Lincoln, OXFORD) a girl was sitting in her final exam and, blam, she couldn't do it. She realised that she'd revised the wrong topic or something and she was facing three hours of doing a paper she had no clue about, safe in the knowledge that she was gonna get kicked out of university and would be forced to roam the streets doing drugs and whoring herself out to fat japanese businessmen with weird fishy fetishes.
So what did she do? Did she give it a good college try anyway and fail, safe in the knowledge that she'd done her best? Did she get depressed? Did she wait til the end of the exam and go cry herself into a coma? Did she just give up on life and die in a haze of drugs and booze? Did she HECK. No, this girl was made of stronger stuff than that. She thought "I'm not going to mess around with any of that pussy shit," and she committed suicide in the best way possible, given the equipment she had at her immediate disposal: SHE STUCK TWO SHARPENED PENCILS UP HER NOSTRILS AND HEADBUTTED THE DESK.

Think about that for a second.

Ok. A few points:

• Why? WHY? OH GOD, WHY?


• Who needs to commit suicide that badly? Surely she could have waited FORTY MINUTES to go back to her room and slit her wrists or something. Anythings beats the ol' pencil nose treatment.
  The following suicides are better than pencil-nosing: slittings your wrists, hanging yourself, shooting yourself in the head, shooting yourself in the liver, shooting yourself in the balls, injecting yourself with concrete dust, eating pebbles, setting yourself on fire, jumping into a bag full of syringes, wearing a danish cartoon t-shirt in a radical mosque in Iraq, tapdancing across a minefield, being mean to an alligator, sleeping with your doctor's wife then telling him about it just before he's about to perform open heart surgery on you, kicking a swan, sucking out the end of your intestines from your anus using a high pressure vacuum cleaner, then tying that end to the blades of a lawnmower then turning the lawmower on, kissing a man with AIDs, not telling Jack Bauer where the bomb is, challenging Chuck Norris to a head-kicking competition, doing a three point turn on a motorway, jumping off a tall building, jumping off a small building, jumping off a box filled with shoes, headbutting the pavement, eating glass, eating Shreddies, messin' with the Rebel Town Boyz, self-cannibalising yourself, suicide bombing a room full of midgets, growing a beard SO BIG you can't eat anything... I could continue. Basically, anything is better than pencil nosing. ANYTHING.


• Imagine being the guy sitting next to her. "Right, ok, question two. Oh, shit, what's the equation for resistance? Oh Lord. I cannot remember. Ok, ok, don't worry, just copy Jill's paper. Just be cool, glance over and AAAAAAAAAAAARGH HOLY CRAP. Oh yeah, voltage over current. Cool. Thanks, dead chick."


• Perhaps it was an accident. Perhaps she was fooling about, pretending to be a walrus or something, then fell asleep. It happens. Not very often, admittedly, but it does happen.


• For my massive female readership so far offended by all the gore in this blog, this is what it would look like if Brad Pitt tried out the same thing:
  
  
  
  Yep. The glazed expression, the moronic gape... this time he's not just stupid... HE'S DEAD.


• I think the worst part of the story is that it was specially sharpened pencils. It would be better with pens. Or even blunt pencils. Or a pair of compasses. Or even a fucking textbook. I think it's the idea of getting spinters in your brain, or the imagined sensation of the cold graphite puncturing my nasal roof, that makes my penis shrivel up and crawl into my body. Eugh. I won't be seeing him for a while.


• Wouldn't it be great if the pencils didn't actually kill her? Instead, she just headbutted the desk and sat there with the ends sticking out of her nose, looking and feeling dumb. Well, I guess, if the pencils had erasers on the end, she'd be able to, like, rub things out using her nose or something. Or or or perhaps the pencils made her super-intelligent or gave her telepathic powers and she could do the paper in record time and get full marks. Alternatively she would be mentally retarded for the rest of her life. That's another option. A funnier option, I think.


• Wouldn't this story make an excellent episode of CSI? Except instead of pencils it turns out that they're tiny little daggers, and it turns out that it wasn't suicide after all, it was in fact MURDER due to some complicated and convoluted backstory involving numerous red herrings and lots of shots of people in white coats looking serious.


• Actually, thinking about it, it would be a better TV advert for those CGP Revision books. A girl's doing the exam and she says "OH I CAN'T DO IT, I'M GOING TO FAIL!" and then she does the pencil nose thing. As she lolls back in her chair, she sprays blood across the room and hits Alan Whicker in the face. Alan Whicker: "What a terrible waste. If only she'd bought a CGP revision book. Buy them now before you two are forced to induce massive brain trauma! Thanks kids!"


• The funniest thing about this whole dreary story is that, after they carted her off to the undertakers, they had her exam marked anyway (I guess they sponged off the blood or had the exam printed on laminated paper or something), just to see how she did. Why? They were curious and wanted to test a scientific thesis: Are dead people smarter than living people? I guess the answer to that question is YES, because SHE GOT A FIRST, IE, THE BEST THING SHE COULD HAVE POSSIBLY GOT. I wonder if that was a consolation to her parents, Mr and Mrs CompassNose (this form of suicide ran in her family. Her uncle had killed himself in a similar manner but using a full-scale scientific calculator). So I guess she was better at particle physics than she thought. Pity she wasn't better at NOT DYING.

Eugh. EUGH EUGH EUGH. Nose-pencilling. Eugh. That's possibly the most horrible thing that I have ever heard. And I have heard several songs by Green Day. Several.

Comedy Mohammed No. 15:



You see that fat man there? That fat, bald man? He's my hero. Yes.

OK, I lied

You know that party that, yesterday I said that I was going to attend? The rockin' awesome one that I got invited to that totally automatically made me six times as cool as the rest of the pathetic acne-scarred fat losers who religiously read the posts on my blog? (I'm sorry, pathetic acne-scarred fat losers, I realise that you make up the core readership of any blog, none so more than mine, and I also realise that I'm sitting naked, typing this at 8 o' clock on a Friday evening instead of going out and getting drunk and getting into a fight with a lamp-post, which seems to be the core entertainment of the rest of my schoolyard chums, but hey, you're still fat, ugly, and acne scarred. And probably wearing a bean-stained Boba Fett T-shirt that your mother, whose basement you're still living in, bought you in 1991)
Yeah, you remember that party? That really supercool one that I PROMISED I was going to attend? Well, I'm not any more. GOSH. Yes. It's true. I've decided to turn down the party. I have actually chosen to sit at home and blog about fat acne-scarred Star Wars geeks while accidentally listening to Bowling for Soup and eating broiled tuna. Why did I do this? Why? WHY? WHY, KAHN WHY? WHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY?

Well, I'll tell you my reasons five:

Reason the first: Basically, I'm too damn attractive for my own good. Yes, its possible. I know that many of the readers of this blog might not understand the basic scientific concepts between being too damn attractive, but I like I said, you're fat, acne-scarred and ugly. To be honest, being mobbed by girls is probably not your biggest problem is life. Unfortunately, it is for me. Everywhere I go, females keep ripping off their clothes (AND MINE!) in an attempt to get at my manly goods. The other day I was walking down the street and this rather hirsute Granny ripped off her shawl, to reveal some very fetching latex S&M gear. To get her to leave me alone, I was forced to wink roguishly at a passing female bus driver. The bus driver giggled and fainted and ran over the Granny. Twice. Then reversed over her head. TRUE STORY.
Overall, it's hard being as utterly gorgeous as I am. Plus, when you factor in the amount of clothes that get ripped off me by horny female talons, pretty darn expensive. So therefore I decided that, just to preserve the sanctity of my new frilly brown shirt and matching purple moleskin flares, it's just better for everyone that I don't attend.

Reason the second: Everyone at the party is going to be ugly. Well, I say that in the future tense, as though they're not already ugly at the moment. But trust me, they are. I should know, I have known them all from the beginning of our collective friendships and, seriously, we're talking funhouse mirror, make infants cry, fell down the ugly tree, beaten with the ugly stick, run over with the ugly lawmower, sandpaper makeup, sulphuric eyedrops, donkey fainting, motherfucker what the fuck is that thing, Down's Syndrome repelling, concrete pillow, shredded glass, Michael Jackson in a decompression tank, dropped into a bag of hammers and kicked down a hill as a baby uuuuuuuuugly. Last time I went to a party with these girls, one of them killed a shrew and then ate it BY INSERTING IT INTO A LARGE, STILL OOZING BLACKHEAD ON HER FOREHEAD. TRUE STORY.
Basically, this reason just emphasises the seriousness of reason one. It's bad enough to be killed by stampading fit Swedish Twins, quite another by stampeding wilderbeast. By the way, all the girls from that party are probably going to post comments saying 'we are fit and you're just jealous'. Don't believe them. They typed those comments using the hairs that grow from their sweaty armpits.

Reason the third: Joe and Oli and Oli might have somehow followed me to this party. For those not in the know (that's YOU, Kris), Joe and Oli and Oli, or as they like to be known, Joolilie-Gill, are the ex-Squaws of various harpies at said party, and apparently said harpies were afraid that said ex-boyfriends would follow me to said party. I agree, it's a valid worry. I mean, it has happened before. I've turned up at a party then realised that, damn, I have three uninvited, unexpected guests clinging to the back of my trenchcoat and hiking boots. In fact, before I go to parties I have to go and spray myself with petrol and set myself alight, just to make sure that I don't have any hitchhikers. And sometimes even that doesn't work. TRUE STORY.
So yes, it was a very fair assumption that I was somehow going to bring the ex-boyfriends with me, and donc, I decided it was just safer to stay away. For everyone's sake.

Reason the fourth: The party is in Worplesdon. Where the FUCK is Worplesdon? I'll show you where. In fact, you can show yourself, in several simple steps. Firstly, get a piece of paper. A4 is preferable, but you can use African standard size if you want. Then get a pink Stabilo Boss highlighter. Write "NOWHERE" in the middle of the page in big old letters. Then fetch a black Pilot Fineline pen. Draw a small cross in the middle of the "H". There. That's where Worplesdon is.
I hear in Worplesdon they don't even have electricity. They just sacrifice virgins and then pray to the Ram God for power. It never works so they stone passing travellers to death and steal their batteries to power their portable radios and dancing Sunflower Men. TRUE STORY.

Reason the fifth: I got uninvited. What? What was that? Oh. Yes. Ahem. Why, Thomas, why, I hear you cry. Why did those losers not invite me to their stupid party for jerks? Well, I'll tell you. Apparently the girl whose party it was didn't know who I was and got freaked out that all these random people were going to show up at her party and thus refused to invite any other people. SO I GOT UNINVITED BY ONE OF HER IMPS. I was informed by texto-message that my presence at said soirée was no longer required. Which I guess is fair enough. But, you know, I did have a few problems with the whole procedure:

• The girl whose party this was was named Tash. She immediately loses points for having a crap name. Tash. Tash. Tash. That's so bollocks. But the name isn't the only sub-par thing. I have never met Tash, but judging from all the descriptions I have heard about her, she is a fat crying lesbian with the head of a snake, the body of a lion and the tail of a goat who polishes the poles of Hampton Upper 6th Formers and kills Christian children and uses their blood to bake her bread. Also, apprently she is six feet tall and built out of solid gold. And cigarettes. Hmm. But mostly, my problem is with her name. Tash. What were her parents THINKING? Or DRINKING?


• How can she not know me? How can I be an unknown? Everyone knows me. I'm like the prodigal fucking son. No party is complete without me; at President Bush's Swearing-In ceremony, he kept looking around and saying 'Where's Tom? Where is he, gawd-damnit?' but unfortunately I was in California, filming Linkin Park's ceremonial gang-rape of the lead singer of Green Day. Sorry George.


• Right, she doesn't want me to come because she doesn't want the party to get gatecrashed. I understand that. It makes sense. Except, wait a second, no it doesn't. If a party is going to get gatecrashed, it's gonna be like Helm's fucking Deep. Inside, there will be the throngs of terrified ugly girls, one black man, and one over-the-top theatre studies student with a scarf, tight jeans, and stupid haircut. Outside will be rank upon rank of Burberry clad orcs, knocking down the doors with battering rams and setting fire to the gnomes. Now who do you want in such a situation? A patch of empty air to not block the way in case of incoming lowerclassage? Or me, tonk rower, fully equipped with 13 years of martial art's training, deadly with nunchucks, swords, knives, spoons and chairs, ready to casually open the door, challenge the lead chav to a fight, then rip out his teeth and pop his eyeballs with them then make him eat his own hand except he won't be able to cos he won't have any teeth and he won't be able to see anyway and he'll just end up sucking his toes off instead? You'd pick me. But no. They chose not to invite me, and now they're all going to get gatecrashed and repeatedly raped by a bunch of pikeys. Especially the over-the-top theatre studies student with a scarf, tight jeans, and stupid haircut. But he might enjoy it.

Christ on a bike. This is what I think of as a perfect display of counter-intuitive female thinking. Its like a constant barrage of pointlessness inside those female brains. I have demonstrated in a complicated diagram of the female cerebrum, here:



Good, eh? And with these new civil rights that are coming in, the problem of pointless female thinking is only going to get worse. They're going to fuck everything up for eeeeeeveryone else. They're soon going to be flying planes, but then going to the bathroom to put on their makeup and driving us into the moon. They're going to invent surgical procedures that are worse than current practise, but have a nice fragranty pink aura, and everyone's going to die of the plague again. They're going to genetically engineer a unicorn which will turn out to be a relentless killing machine and will wipe out the entire staff of the lab in which it was created before being killed by a man, with some sort of huge electric shock.
In short, this is why humanity is never going to progress anywhere: Because I didn't get invited to a party.

Comedy Mohammed No. 14:


But on the other hand, I actually am properly invited to ANOTHER PARTY TOMORROW. A party that is like twenty times more attractive and heterosexual than the one I purposefully skipped today. So fuck the lot of you, I still rape you all on popularity.

I'm starting to notice a pattern in my blog posts...

I write a long post. I leave it for a week or so until people stop commenting. Then I get guilty about not blogging.
Then I write a short, shitty post about not blogging which gets more comments than the long post. I slowly hang myself with my own stifled creativity.




Anyone want to guess which sort of post this one is?

Comedy Mohammed No. 13:



I'm going to a party tomorrow. God, I am so much popular than all of you put together.

Don't be a Gimp. Keep London's Streets tidy!

If this post doesn't publish properly, then I'm sorry. It aint my fault, teh internets are broken. Demon Internet.net are a bunch of cunts who sold us broadband that doesn't even work properly half the time. No, seriously, don't buy anything from them. Although, if what I'm saying is valid and the broadband has cut out AGAIN, then I'm just gonna be talking to myself here. So there's no point in typing this. lkj;lajsld. But on the other hand, if it IS working, and thus everyone can read this, then Demon isn't as bad as they appear. Hmm. Catch 22. Oh well, fuck it.

As I said previously, I saw V for Vendetta the other day. It's awesome. No, seriously, awesome. Basically, this film is about when a Nazi-ish government rises in Britain (hint: the leader of this party is called SUTLER. Get it?) and makes everybody's lives miserable. Then this guy in an awesome white mask mask turns up and hands their asses to them. He does this by blowing up things, stabbing guards in the hands, and murdering sleeping women. I can't downplay how awesome this film is. It makes terrorism fun! I want to go try out some of that stuff right now. I need to find myself a facist government. Then I'll make myself a cool-ass mask and fertiliser bombs before doing some cutlery combat to take them down. PERHAPS I SHOULD GO TO AMERICA EH???????//?!?/1/1//!?//1/!?!?!

EH? EH? EH? EH? EH? EH? BUSH IS HITLER? EH? EH? EH?

(Blogdog: OMG POLITICAL HUMOUR!!!)

Yeah. But this film was awesome. Really really awesome. And it also gives me hope for the future. You see, I was worrying about the way society is heading. I was worrying about the CCTV cameras, the security cards, the way that our civil rights are being slowly weathered away through the freeze-thaw tactics of our evil government, led by that obvious Nazi, cannibal, and child murderer Tony "Emotional... Pause" Blair. It seems obvious to me that a new Nazi party will rise and take over this country in the next few years. I was pretty bummed about this prospect for a while. But then it hit me. What the fuck do I have to worry about? I'll just carry out the Homer Simpson Method: hide under a pile of coats and hope that everything will somehow sort itself out. And it will. Because, if I have learnt ANYTHING from Hollywood, somebody will show up and save the day.
So the plan is simple. All I do is just wait out the bad times, keep my nose clean, and in twenty years - tops - the Government will manage to piss off some masked superhero vigilante (see: V, Neo, Luke Skywalker, Johnny Pneumatic, Winston Churchill) who will sort them out with bombs and heroics in, I reckon, a YEAR, tops. Awesome, I don't need any civil responsibility: SOMEBODY ELSE WILL DO ALL THE HARD WORK FOR ME! I'll be one of the citizens whose dancing about in the streets at the end of the film when the hero has killed all the evil government and replaced them with a fair democracy and a random ticker-tape parade is taking place.
The best part of the plan is that it's FOOLPROOF. I have blonde hair and blue eyes, so the Neo-Nazis won't even bother to mess with me. In fact, they'll love me. They'll probably put me on a poster or something, and then I can bring the system down from within by always blinking when the photographer takes the photo so all he'll have is a load of bad pictures of me blinking and the Neo-Nazis won't be able to put my picture on a bus stop and they'll have wasted a load of money on a photographer. And there will be loads of buff blonde women with wide, child bearing hips and home-made clothes, willing to cook me sausages and thatch my house and raise my beautiful blonde children. Yes siree, things are gonna be pretty sweet once the Nazis come and re-invade.
Of course, I assume there'll be a downside to it that I don't see at the moment. I guess that all my black friends will be taken off, so I'll have to find some other homies to talk jive with, and I won't be able to have any more bar-mitzvah drug cruises with my amigos Avishag Goldwinkelstein and Herschel Metrogoldweincohen, and my unemployed crippled black lesbian scrabble partner Sasha will be gone right out the window, and I guess that I'll have to give up listening to Linkin Park (cos they is so anti the authority that them Nazi screwbags just wouldn't be able to HANDLE IT... I bet that V listens to the L-Pizzle boys). Other than that, the Nazis = Sweet. Mecha-Hitler (or Hitler 2, or New Hitler, or Newtler) = Cool beans.

Hmm. You know what? I bet that Hitler 2 would listen to a lot of the Kaiser Chiefs. I don't know why, but the Kaisers just seem like the sort of band that Hitler'd like. I bet he'd have them on his iHateJewPod (it has a gun built in, and a little pair of pliars to pull out gold teeth and send them to get melted down into Nazi lego), and he'd always be listening to them during meetings and there'd be all sorts of kerazy comic mis-communications when he signs along. Yeah.

"Mein Fuhrer, we want to sign this declaration to close the camp at Auschwitz and let the Jews go. The Holocaust was a bad enough idea the first time. Do you REALLY want another one? It's really hard for the PR department to spin all the dead bodies."
"I PREDICT EIN RIOT!"
"Hmm... perhaps you're right. It would cause too much civil disturbance to release them. Ok, we'll just gas them all instead. And then we'll blow up the bodies and feed them to the other Jews. Good idea, mein Fuhrer."

You know what band I also think that Hitler would like? THIS ONE:

Prussian Blue


Yeesh. Although they may look young and innocent and (in the case of the one on the right) like Jaws from Moonraker, these two blonde miniwherfer-shells are anything BUT. Their names are Lynx and Lamb (nice names... nice names), and they are THE latest thing in the Hate-Rock music circle. Actually, 'Hate-Rock' is too harsh a word. Their music isn't really rock. It's more like 'Hate-WankyAcousticGuitarFolkRedneck' music.
Their music is an eclectic mix of KT Tunstall and Heidrich, emcompassing such diverse and fascinating themes as "We hate Black people" and "We love White People", as well as covering widespread topics like "The Media is biased and hates us cos we speak the truth about all Black people being rapists" and "The Nazis were kind of neat".
But please, don't for a second think that these two lovelies are racists. FAR FROM IT. They just speak the gospel truth about the world of today, as reflected by their totally unbiased website, The Official Prussian Blue Website (Check it out for a banner picture in which the girl on the left is thinking about skinning and eating a small child). Don't believe me? Tough. But this is a very useful website, I have to say. You see, I was wondering about the girls themselves, their personal lives, whether they had boyfriends or if they wanted to go out with a smooth lookin' Caucasian hunk o' flesh like me, when LO AND BEHOLD I found a whole page DEVOTED to such interests. There's no mention of a boyfriend, I see. Interesting.

Lamb and Lynx Gaede are two 13 year old twin sisters who are also known as the band Prussian Blue.

(Good for them. By the way, Gaede is pronounced GAY-d. Gay. Hehe. Only 13, though? Bit young. Hmm. Well, they live in the Southlands of America, and that's basically marryin' age, so I think we can make an exception.)

Recently they received international media attention because Prussian Blue is a White Pride band. The songs they the girls sing reflect their White Nationalist beliefs. Today, if you are White, and proud to be White, it is considered Politically Incorrect by the media. The music that Prussian Blue performs is intended for White people. They hope to help fellow Whites come to understand that love for one’s race is a beautiful gift that we should celebrate.

(Wait. Hold the phone. They're WHITE? When the fuck did they become WHITE? I get the impression that these girls might be WHITE. WHITE, you say? Yes, WHITE. WHITE WHITE WHITE. I notice a subtle political agenda going on here. Hmm.
When I read that their music was intended 'for white people', I immediately ran downstairs to look at myself in the mirror. Sure enough, I was white. YES, I thought to myself. I'm allowed to listen! But then I had a thought. What about all the black people out there? They won't be able to listen to the magic of PRUSSIAN BLUE. They could be missing out on all sorts of wicked beats to play their jungle drums to. So I did what any patriot would do: I immediately illegally downloaded a sample of their songs off the net for free. Well, there were a couple of real classics in that mix, I tell you. One of my favourites was 'Sk1nhed Boi', a cover of Avril Lavigne's 'Skater Boi', except that instead of a greasy haired skater boy who just can't get his girl, we have shaven headed neo-nazis who just can't lynch like they used to. The first line of this song was "Skinhead boy, standing fast, not afraid to kick some ass". No, seriously. But let's find out more...

Lamb was born first and Lynx was born six minutes later. They have a very close relationship but they are not identical and people who know them can tell them apart easily. When they were little they had a special language that only they could understand. Neither one is the leader or the follower, both of them are strong-willed and have minds of their own.

(Nearly identical? A special language that only get could understand? Strong willed? Minds of their own? Holy Crap, it's the Children of the Corn! And I don't mean to throw a spanner in their braces, but being strong-willed and having a mind of your own are not good attributes for when the Nazis make their comeback tour. They should be apathetic, spineless and opinionless, like me. Actually, when Hitler does return, I bet these two are gonna be like those teachers' pets you had in junior school who kept sucking up to the teacher. "Mrs Melville! Mrs Melville! I unpacked all the crayons and cleaned my desk before school started! Mrs Neil! I made you a card and tidied up the cloakroom before you got! Mr Hitler, Mr Hitler! I was persecuting the blackies years before you came back! Give me a cookie!" And then all the other Nazi leaders are going to hate them and beat them with soap when they're asleep. Fucking suckups.)

They have attended public school in Bakersfield, where they made a lot of friends and had a lot of fun. ( At first the girl’s were a little apprehensive at attending public school but by the end of the semester had made many many friends and won several school awards.) Lynx was chosen to be part of the 2005 Kern County Honor Choir. At the end of the year Lamb was presented with an award for Outstanding Student of the Year in her History class.

(Well thank fuck for that. I was worried for a second that they weren't going to fit in at school. In fact, I laid awake at night being neurotic. "What if the other girls don't like Lynx and Lamb? What will they do? Will they make friends?" But no, Lynx is part of the choir, and Lamb won a History award (possibly for her personal theme essay, "Holocaust Schmolocaust").
BUT WAIT A SECOND. I just had an amazing idea. To cross-market them. The girls star in their own situation comedy, kind of like "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air". Basically, Lynx and Lamb go on tour in a bus, which breaks down in HARLEM, and they have to go to school in some place full of black people. Over the course of the series, they start preaching their anti-black message and all the black kids realise how wrong they were to listen to Malcolm X, and vote to repeal the Emancipation Proclamation and go back to picking cotton. The series ends with the girls getting back on their bus and moving to Africa to reinstall Apartheid.)

Lynx and Lamb live with thier mom and stepdad and baby sister Dresden.

Well that's nice. A well balanced family unit there. Wait. Dresden? DRESDEN? DRESDEN? FECKING DRESDEN? WHO THE FUCK NAMES A BABY AFTER A GERMAN CITY THAT WAS BOMBED INTO THE GROUND BY THE ALLIES IN WW2? This just raises the question: Who the HELL is are the parents of these children? We all know who the father is: Hitler's disembodied ghost, armed with a turkey baster. But the mother must be like a combination of Himmler and that woman from Driving School with the big mole on her chin. You KNOW who I'm talking about. I bet she wears floral aprons and shoulder pads and beats the girls with bacon if they miss a practise. Kind of like the mother from Carrie.

I gotta say, though, their combination of scratchy prepubescent voices, twangy guitars and inspiring lyrics is really something to hear. So far, I have listened to their greatest tracks for a good hour solidly, and I'm singing along to some of their catchier lyrics, especially the song about how great Rudolph Hess was, and that other one that goes on about black people in masks attacking the houses of white people with guns. I feel more prejudiced already. Well DONE, Prussian Blue, you have converted yourself another soldier in your fight against people with different pigmentation in their dermis skin cells! I'm gonna go put a white traffic cone on my head and set fire to an Indian man! Let's go!

I know, I'm pathetic and apathetic (ha ha) to love Prussian Blue so much. But I just can't help it. They're so awesome on so many levels. I tried to show my appreciation of the way they've changed my thinking by carving swastika on my arm with a compass, but I only got to SWAS before I passed out and hit myself on the head with an antique pig-shaped door stop. So instead I made a picture of the girls. It's quite a metaphorical picture. Symbolic, if you will. It symbolises them rising above the heads of all the evil (read: black) people in the world, as well as the rising of a new world order, as soon as the Nazi party gets their fucking act sorted out:



Bluetterfly. What the fuck was I thinking. That's not even a pun. Christ. I've jumped the shark.

Comedy Mohammed No.12:



Oh, you have to admit, that one is pretty cool.

A new blog, you say?

Tomorrow, my pretties, tomorrow...

On the other hand, I saw V for Vendetta tonight. It kicks a controversially unbelievable amount of ass. I advise you all to go see it. NOW. I'm not blogging again til you do. So there.
Tune in tomorrow for Knife fights, Gun fights, Fist fights, Mustaches, Lesbians, Nazis, Lesbian Nazis, Handsome Location Scouts, and some really fucked up 13 year olds.









No, really, that was the entire post. There isn't much more.


Comedy Mohammed No. 11:



Wow, that was very cultural. Are you lot getting as bored of the Comedy Mohammeds as I am? And believe me, they only get more geeky and esoteric as we continue on. Oh well. I haven't flogged that dead horse for NEARLY long enough.

No. 5

I know that most of the people who read this blog have an IQ level of 'Technically Retarded', but if you can, cast your mind back into the far, distant future, when I wrote a post about Various shit blogs that have been cluttering up the internet. Remember the furore that post stirred up? Many of the weird creeps that stalk the sacred halls of this so-called Information Superhighway came sliding out of the woodwork like a bunch of hypothetical tongues covered in lube to batter me with badly thought-out insults and whiny complaints about me pointing out their total failure at life. Amongst the most crushing insults, I was told:

"Dude your blog sucks seriously 60 comments about nothing this blog is a total waste of space", but that comment was by some guy called Derek, so I am inclined to disregard it.

"Butt Fuck for the fun of it," not quite sure how relevant it was, but hey, "Littlenigglet" is welcome to come back anytime and spread his metaphorical wisdom to all who cares to read about it.

"If you're going to laugh at this, want to get a kick out of my friend that was murdered a month ago as well?" from some woman. Wait... her friend died? Heh.



I can usually simply laugh off the complainy comments. Because, after all, people who don't like my blog are wrong, and basically analagous with retarded kids, and you wouldn't get angry at a retarded kid if he didn't know how to tie his shoelaces and he stuck his penis into an electricity socket, would you? No, you'd laugh at him. So there's no point in me beating up those retarded kids with my garden hose of wit, because, lets be honest, beating up retarded kids with garden hoses is only fun for the first twenty minutes before it just becomes sad. So I decided to let them be. But then I saw a comment that was so awful, so horrific, and by a woman so RIPE for murderous insulting that, well, I just HAD to contribute my unique little perspective on the horrific way she's botched up her life.
This was the comment in question, posted by a beautiful Caliban that shall henceforth be known simply as Chrissie:

Pretty amusing that you find such fault with peoples blogs that A) need to post about it and B) venture back to see if anyone noticed you posting about it.
Pretty funny shit. If your like... 12.
oh and word verification... is for twats.

Now... like I said, I'm a pretty forgiving guy. So therefore... I could forgive the pretty massive and obtrusive use of... ellipsis (Twice in one comment? What the hell were you thinking, woman?), as well as... the pretty annoying repetition of the word... 'pretty'. I... could even forgive the fact that there was a certain lack of personal pronouns in the first sentence, the misuse of 'your', and the lack of capitalisation on 'oh'... Even the fact that you HILARIOUSLY called me a 12 year old (I'm actually SEVEN, just with an abnormaly large vocabulary and a well-read, sideways view of the world) could be put down to the fact that you were probably working through your seventeenth Krispy Kreme while you pounded out that literary gem of a comment, and thus were obviously well into that kerazy SUGAR-RUSH that you 29-stone-queens get so often.
But what I cannot, under ANY circumstances forgive is an act of such blasphemy that it burns a tiny hole in the back of my eyes, just looking at it. Your final words, they make me cry. They make baby Jesus cry. They even make Squirrel Baby cry.



WORD VERIFICATION IS NOT FOR TWATS. Word Verification owns your ass. Without word verification, where would we be? A world full of spam for fancy dress stores and lawnmowers, a world without words like "mysado" or "zzrsrys" or my personal favourites, "sunxwap" and "dueyfock":


In short, a total living HELL. And that's what you want to consign us to, is it, Chrissie? A hell? You bitch. I hate you already and I haven't even read your blog properly.

*Interval music plays... doo doo da*

Ok, I have read Chrissie's blogs carefully, and now I hate her more than ever. As it turns out, Chrissie is one of those uninteresting people who make up for the fact that they have nothing important to say by saying lots and LOTS of unimportant, uninteresting things in order to kind of balance out the overal karmic intervals or something. As such, she has THREE blogs, although to be fair, one of them is a tester blog, featuring such awe-inspiring posts as "This ia a test...a big test...TEESSSSSSSTTTTTT!!" (the ellipsis returns... and how the hell do you mispell 'is'? IT'S TWO FUCKING LETTERS LONG!), so I can't really count it in my reckonings. Everybody has tester blogs full of bad HTML and worse spelling. Even me.
So I can't count the tester blog. Which is a shame, because it's probably better written and full of more cohesive thought than the other two blogs put together. Oh well, c'est la vie.

But before I get to the blogs, I just have to attack the blogger itself. Because there's no fun in ripping somebody's work to shreds for no reason if you haven't insulted the person being ripped to shreds first. Firstly, this is how "Chrissie" defines herself:

38yr old slightly crazy virgin in Cali-fornia (Arnold Style) who smells like vanilla jasmine and has 3 kids, 2 dogs and 5 cats, yep. I said 5.

What the fuck. Notice, I'm so amazed, I didn't even use a question mark. Slightly crazy virgin? With 3 kids? Now those three statements can't possibly make sense. I know that she's probably pretty stupid, but she must know the basics of biology. If you have kids, you must have had sexual intercourse first. It's kind of a required rule. Ergo, concordantly, vis a vis, you wouldn't be a virgin. That's just how the cookie crumbles. Unless of course, she adopted those three kids. But would an adoption agency give three little chinese babies to a woman described as "slightly crazy", and missing the basic concepts of comma placement? I don't think so. So she can't possibly be those things. So she's embarassed herself there.
Unless, of course, she was being ironic (unlikely), or she's one of those kooky mother earth types who has re-born herself as a 'sacred virgin' and wanders around all day eating lotus flowers and organic honey. But then she portrays a total SEX KITTEN with the following blog description of giving an apple oral pleasure (no, really), and her blogger picture.
Ah, the blogger picture.

It has a picture of the back of a beautiful half naked woman who's arse has apparently been sprayed with some black fluidlike fibres, possibly from a giant spider. Now, I'm not a betting woman, but I would wager apples to acorns that Chrissie does not actually look like that in real life. I don't know why, it's just a hint.
In fact, using the miracle of the Photoshop Ditital Pixel Image Re-Manipulator and some awesome hacking skillz, I have been able to digitally reformat the image back into its more realistic version. I know, it's far fetched, but fuck, in CSI they have the ability to take a grainy CCTV shot of about four pixels and zoom in into the reflection in a woman's eye and catch the murderer by reading the words written on the back of his tshirt, and nobody complains about that. Perhaps because in CSI they are solving murders and they all look sexy, whereas in this case I'm just making fun of a woman on the internet for no reason and, to date, I am NOT sexy. In fact, I look like I've been hit by a dumper truck full of alcohol and sweat. Damn you, Scodka! (vodka with skittles in it).

Chrissie actually looks like this:



Except fatter. And instead of holding a wilting flower, she has five Big Macs, some Super-Sized Fries, a Bacon McFlurry, a big ol' bag o' salt, two bottles of ketchup and a Diet Coke the size of a dustbin. And she's probably wearing trakkie-beeees. Right, now we know her, its time to make fun of her actual BLOGS.

Blog No. 1: Blog By Force
First thing I notice about this blog is that the URL title is "Minx67". I don't trust people who have 'Minx' at point in their virtual name. Same goes for 'Girl', 'Grrl', 'Cutie', 'Hot', 'Nympho', 'Froufrou', 'Crazy', 'Mad', 'Star', 'Superstar', 'Rockstar', 'G', 'Baby', 'Lil', 'Sex', 'Sexy', 'Bigboy', 'Fittie', 'Lol', 'xxx', 'May', 'Psycho', 'Angel', 'Jesus', 'Fresh', 'Kitten', 'Puppy', 'Fluffy', 'Kiss', 'Tongue', 'Lips', 'Growl', 'John', 'Sporty', 'Devil', 'Demon', 'Sprite', 'Jammy', 'Curvy', 'Naughty', 'Massivetool4u', 'Honey', 'Dude', 'Mini', 'Hello', 'Pixie', 'Fairy', 'Lol', 'Pothead', 'Scary', or 'WilliamShatner'. I can go on. It's my theory that if you feel the need to put 'minx' as your display name, you are anything BUT a minx. And the word 'curvy' = 'fat', in case you were wondering.

The second thing that I notice is a giant picture of a half naked mermaid. A MERMAID. For feck's sake. Why do people like mermaids so much? They are the least sexually appealing creatures on the planet. I mean, I could understand, kind of, the reasoning behind, say, a cat fetish (they exist. I can find the website if you really want) but MERMAIDS? FISHWOMEN? WHY? WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO BE A MERMAID? ALL THEY FUCKING DO IS SWIM ABOUT SINGING ABOUT HOW GREAT IT IS TO LIVE UNDER THE SEA AND LURING SAILORS TO THEIR DEATHS. I hate mermaids with a burning passion. If I had my way, the navy would cover every square foot of the sea with depth charges and liquidate these watery bints. I mean, it'd wipe out most of the sealife (including the clams), but who cares about coral? When's the last time a piece of coral did something for me?

Apart from the top, this blog is actually just mediocre, as opposed to being generally offensively bad. Except for the picture of the arse. I have also noticed that apparently she's friends with the Trailer of Love Guy, which explains why she'd decided to provoke my unholy wrath in the first place. Ooh, the plot thickens. But it's with the second blog that it gets really fun:

Blog No.2: Badly Written Erotic Fiction!
Be aware if you are going to click on that link, there are a big pair of grey boobs at the top of the page, which may be offensive to some readers. Not as offensive as the stupid-ass background which is, coincidentally, the SAME COLOUR AS THE FRIKKIN TEXT, so it's nigh-on impossible to read the text. Which, it turns out, isn't really a bad thing.

It's a generally accepted rule on the internet that erotic fiction is a waste of space. And time. And, generally, air. The stories on this site don't really break that rule. I have more important things to do than waste my time reading the wanky verbal diahraeoaoaoeoaoeaoaoeeeeaoah of some 67 year old who thinks that her writings are clever and soul affirming, but the first story appears to be about a man going shopping. He comes across a woman and OH MY GOD THEY END UP HAVING SEX. There are 0 comments. Apparently all the thousands of people appreciating the literary power on display here are just so catatonic by such alluring sentences like "his lips were on hers, setting her afire with a raw heat she could feel from her very core" that they were literally unable to type their appreciation.
The second story appears to be about a man who walks about a house. He comes across a woman and OH MY GOD THEY END UP HAVING SEX.
The third story is about a boy who is doing some chores. He comes across a woman and OH MY GOD THEY END UP HAVING SEX.

But god-forbid I imply that all the stories are badly written, repetitive and pointless. God FORBID. No, in fact they appear to appeal to a wide range of fetishes and perversions. For example, story no. 1 appeals to people who enjoy badly written, repetitive, pointless sex scenes in the shower. Story no. 3 appeals to a much more select fraction of the population - those turned on by strange and redundant punctuation marks.

"“It’s OK sweetie,” she replied. “You’re young and should rebound quick. Let’s get you out of those pants and into the shower.”

No, stop it, please, that's just too hot.

* * *

A very special Comedy Mohammed No. 10:



To show solidarity for Word Verification, please type your verification code into the comments.

This is not a democracy!

As this is a democracy, I have decided to give my loyal readers a choice on what I blog about next:

Choice Number One: Paedophiles
Yes, I know that I have already blogged about this before in the awesome, seminal (hee hee) and CLASSIC paedophile post of last year, but hey, I'm getting lazy, and what better subject to repeat myself on than the subject of paedophilia? I also found the best, most horrifyingly sickeningly disturbing site on the subject (No, it's not child porn, it's even worse), so I'd have plenty of fodder. Hey, I might even make an awesome picture, like the last one.
And anyway, men having sex with children is always comic gold, as Maddox ably pointed out in his latest HILARIOUS COMEDY OUTPUT!

NB: I'm being sarcastic. Maddox's last post was shit. A paedophile quiz? What the hell was that? In fact, Maddox's last ten posts have been shit. Now he just goes on about how funny he used to be and the fact that he's writing some crap book that nobody will ever buy. Oh Maddox, what happened to you? You used to be like the Buddha of all bloggers, but now you're just one of those crap gods that nobody cares about, like, that guy with the elephant head, or Allah.

Choice Number Two: My Dissertation on why Maddox is crap now
See above.

Choice Number Three: Me getting into Oxford or Cambridge University
They both want my sexy body. In THIS post, you would get a description of me going to Cambridge University and listening to my iPod, and a rundown of the fact that I have to do extra Oxbridge lessons at school, and I'm the only one in my year planning on doing English. So it will literally just be me and the teacher. And the teacher is not even fit and female and naked. The fit female naked teacher left school a week ago and never returned. SAD SMILEY. :(

Choice Number Four: Literature
I'll discuss some great works of literature, inlcluding Gogol's bizarre work of social commentary and zombies, "The Overcoat" and Faulkner's classic "As I lay dying", featuring the most disturbing five word chapter that I have ever read. I'll also talk about Harry Potter, and will share some of my poetry with the rest of the class. Nobody is going to vote for this one, so hey, I'll throw in some naked pictures of myself too.

Choice Number Five: Another insulting post, this time of a woman who writes erotic fiction on the internet
Basically, there was this woman on the internet who thought it a good idea to cuss my blog. Now, you know me, I'm usually a very laid back guy about criticism. If it's positive criticism, hey, I'm cool with that, G, and if it's negative, well, I just ignore it. But this woman made SEVERAL GRAMMATICAL ERRORS IN HER INSULTING OF MY BLOG. And she called me 12. And then I found out that she actually writes online erotic fiction. If anybody is asking for a cuss-down, it's this uppity beeeeyatch.
So the post would basically be five hundred words of me rinsing her. And possibly a picture of a fat woman with the words THIS IS WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE Photoshopped on top. You know, the usual.
Although this sounds like repetition of the last insulting blog, in my mind it is more like a 'running feature' - I insult people's blogs, they get their friends to come onto my blog and insult ME, I insult their blogs. And so on. Plus, I think I write better when I'm spitefully and relentlessly tearing into somebody else's hard work. GO ME.

Choice Number Six: Soap
You can never get enough soap. Soap!

So there are your options. Choose wisely. If you want, you can debate your case on the comments.

(Pah, like I care. We all know that I'll end up doing all six at some point. We also all know that this post was just an excuse to write something, while really putting absolutely no effort into imagination or, you know, cohesiveness. But hey, you read it all and I win)

Comedy Mohammed No. 9 (golly, you lot are going to LOVE 10):



Literature? Edgar Allen Poe? You get the link? No? Well then, fuck off.

Hey there, wait a minute Mr...

Last night, I had very little to do. I tried to fill the space left by my total lack of social life with many pleasurable leisure activities. I sat at home and lay on my bed and stood around doing nothing for a few hours. I visited every single site on the internet, including my new favourite, The Sneeze Fetish Realm (nb: This is actually a site for people who have a sexual fetish about sneezing. Check out the Harry Potter-Inspired stories. Actually, don't). I span around on my chair then stood up and fell over. I played with my action figures for a bit. I downloaded the "Wild West" level music from Timesplitters 2 and listened to it three times in a row on repeat. Hell, I even read two pages of "As I lay Dying" by William Faulkner, possibly one of the most dull books ever. All this only took forty minutes, and I WAS STILL BORED. Like the Hungry Catterpillar, but with boredom instead of food. What to do? WHAT TO DO, GODDAMNIT?
Then a thought struck me. A wonderful, magical thought. A wonderful, magical, blunderful, concriddliagial thought. A quite strumdiddlious thought. Why don't I turn on the television and see what the Gods of the Box have chosen for me to view? So that's what I did. I turnedth oneth theeth televisioneth andeth Ieth watchedeth.
And wow, the choice I had over those five channels. I could have watched anything. Literally anything. I could have watched the newsreaders pout as they told me about some losers who got blown up in some sandy landy. I could have watched Jimmy Carr reattaching his eyebrows. I could have even watched a documentary on beavers having sex with geese. But no. I said "NO" to all of these options. I even turned down that squeaky cunt Justin Lee Collins. Instead, I chose to watch three hours of dirty people running around wearing delivering mail, growing beards, and killing horses.

Yes, that seminal classic of cinematic poetry The Postman was on last night. And I watched every minute. I didn't want to. But I couldn't tear my eyes away. It's like that TV advert for Road Safety when they show you the slo-mo of that boy getting hit by the car. "If you had been going at 30, the car would have stopped... here." Then it hits the boy and he bounces off the car with a tasty crunching sound. Now, nobody wants to watch that advert too closely, especially when the pelvis shatters and his teeth fly out and blind that duck. But you always do, just because the beauty of a young boy getting hit by a car in black and white can't be denied. Although, to be honest, most of those road safety ads have lost their shock value with me now. Having seen them all day in day out for the past year, I can predict the collision to the second. "He's gonna hit the motorcycle nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn....ow." CRASH. What can I say? I have a gift.

But that's besides the point. Ce n'est pas le point. C'est une politique vouée à l'échec. Mon point is that I was unable to stop watching this film because of its sheer awfulness. From the opening moments, when an unrequested lion wanders onto screen and starts kicking a tin can around, to the closing slow motionless of a statue of a man on a horse taking a letter from a cute blonde boy, surrounded by old ladies nodding their heads appreciatively, this film is a textbook case of cinematic tedium. Kind of like Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Or Waterworld. Or The Bodyguard. Or Dances with Wolves. Or Kevin Costner.

I'm not sure that I could be able to properly describe the plot to this film without doing it a grave disservice, so instead I typed "The Postman" into IMDB and copied the synopsis:

The life of the fisherman Mario changes dramatically when the famous Chilean writer Pablo Neruda settles on his little Italian island. The two become friends and Neruda helps the shy and clumsy Mario to win the heart of Beatrice, the beautiful waitress at the village's inn, by showing him the beauty and power of poetry.

That's interesting, I don't remember the film I watched being anything like that at all. Perhaps the version I saw was a remake. And a pretty shite remake at that. They dropped the entire 'poetry' storyline, and instead concentrated more on the Chilean writer angle. Except instead of a Chilean writer, they used a Shakespeare quotin', gun totin' Kevin C. And instead of an Italian island, they used a post apocalyptic America where some kind of war has destroyed all technology and forced everybody to wear fingerless gloves (because everyone has forgotten to sew and so is forced to wear clothes made out of ripped rags and brown leather). And instead of a fisherman they used a huge land army owned by some evil dude with a beard who quotes Shakespeare and daintily paints self portraits and marches around talking about how he used to sell copy machines. And instead of Beatrice, they decided to push for the "Kevin Costner finds a bag of mail and decides, for no reason whatsoever, to deliver it, and in doing so manages to totally reform the entire United States without even trying" angle. Which is good, I like that. It's clever. I can also see the interesting parallels between "the beauty and power of poetry" and "a guy randomly getting eaten by a lion". Interesting.

Of course, I've just totally overcomplicated the plot of this film to an insulting level, because really it boils down to two KEY narrative concepts: Kevin Costner growing a beard, and people being mean to horses. That's it.
I do English Literature, and these two ideas would be known as 'Motifs'. Let me enumerate my consolidation of the answers. The film starts with a stubbly Kevin Costner letting his horse drink possibly poisoned water. It then continues to him having a sword-fight with said horse. Yes, I know. It then proceedes to a fully bearded Kevin C hearing that his horse has been murdered. Yep. After a bit, a newly shaven Kevin gets a new horse, which, I think, dies in a gunfight later on, along with some other horses (at which point he is stubbly again). He then picks up another horse and becomes fully bearded, at which point he goes to live in a cabin in the woods with a lady. He lies in bed for a bit, and the lady shoots and cooks his horse in a stew. After a bit, he picks up another horse from somewhere, along with some more friends, all of whom are riding horses. And he shaves off the beard. Clean shaven, he and his friends ride about on their horses, until some of them (and their horses) are shot to bits. In retalitation, he forms an ambush and shoots some of his foes, who are riding horses, many of whom die. Finally, stubbly again, he and his enemy play chicken with their horses and crash them into each other, possibly giving said equines nasty bumps. There, I pretty much told you the entire film.
He grows two huge beards and twice he shaves. Each time he does so, somebody comments on it. "Oh, you've shaved. It looks good."
Roughly fifty horses die during the course of the film. Interestingly, all horse death is at vital points of the story (usually at the beginning and ends of acts), which hints to me that horse-death in THE POSTMAAAAAAAAAAAN is somehow linked to the core narrative structure of the entire piece. Which would be a surprise, because it seems that fuck all else attention was paid to making it narratively cohesive. Example. I was watching it quite happily. I checked my watch, it had been going for fifty minutes. "Hmm" I think to myself, "We must be nearly entering the middle act now, surely." Then it hit me. WE WERE FIFTY MINUTES IN AND SO FAR THERE HADN'T YET BEEN EVEN THE SLIGHTEST HINT OF ANY POSTMAN-RELATED ACTIVITIES. HE HADN'T EVEN SEEN ANY LETTERS. DICKHEAD. Even in Lost In Translation, the official Slowest Movie Ever Made, we meet the two main chracters in the first twenty minutes.
It was like when I was watching Titanic for the first time. I was thinking "Yep, she's naked, he's doodling her, they're in love, it'll all work out after they get rid of the fiancé, this shouldn't go on for more than an hour longer HOLY CRAP THEY HAVEN'T EVEN HIT THE FRIGGIN ICEBURG YET. SHITE. Just in case you were wondering, this film is about five hours long. Most of those five hours are shots of Kevin Costner looking pensive, Kevin Costner looking thoughtful, Kevin Costner looking contemplative, Kevin Costner with wind flowing through his hair, Kevin Costner with wind flowing through his beard, and horses dying. Now I know that I'm emphasising the horse death quite strongly here, but seriously, a LOT of the film was horses perishing. So much so that I think the poster doesn't do it justice:



Here's the theatrical poster. Now I know that it has a beard and some horses in it, along with Kevin Costner's apparently broken neck, but, you know, it just doesn't show the audience just how much horse holocaust there IS in this masterpiece. I mean, what if there are any bearded horse-death fetishists out there who would go to see the film if only they knew about it (don't laugh, I'm sure that there are such things out there on the web)? The filmmakers would be missing out on a HUGE demographic. So using hours of hard work and some serious Photoshop know-how/effort, I made a better poster, which totally captures the entire ethos of this film:



Overall, this film was a let-down. I was expecting an hour and a half of italian fishermen learning poetry and Jack Nicholson using butter in inappropriate ways. There was NONE OF THAT. NONE AT ALL. BASTARDS. And what's more, they cold heartedly lied to the audience, by implying that women find men who look like Kevin Costner attractive and thus want to sleep with them. That is not true. Not true at alllllllll.

Comedy Mohammed No. 8:



The HUOTW (Horse Union Of The World) does not approve of The Postman, and would like it banned. It'll never happen, because we have FREEDOM OF SPEECH, you metal-shoe-wearing pansies.