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.
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