I'm going to Henley tomorrow

It's kind of like the bastard half-caste child of Ascott and Glastonbury. With extra tents. I intend to totally rave it up all weekend.

Not much else to report.

Several very interesting developments to report, actually. But they are definitely works in progress, and anyway there will probably be some excitement related to them in the following days. I am going to be pretty disliked in several quarters in about three days time. Who knows I might even get punched/slapped/clawed in the face if things get really exciting and Eastendersish. I doubt that though. But it WOULD BE GOOD.

What else?

Exams are over.

I fucked up my French A Level essay. It was meant to be 240 words long, and I somehow managed to drag out 350 words of tortured bullshit. When I counted the words for the first time, I panicked, because:
a: It wasn't finished. I was only halfway through my plan for the third of five paragraphs.
b: No, mostly the fact that I was like a hundred and ten words over budget and I wasn't finished writing the worst essay I have ever done.

I also managed to wang through my Advanced Extension Award English without even breaking a sweat. AEAE is the buffest exam ever; basically you get given a huge booklet of extracts from various books and stuff and you have three hours in which to read it, and then write two essays about it. WHAT ESSAYS I HEAR YOU CRY? Well, the first essay moreorless has a title going "Yeah, I don't really care to be honest, just write about whatever the fuck you want and I'll mark it for you." The second essay has basically the same structure, but with extra literary criticism.
Despite (or possibly because of) the somewhat freeform design of the AEAE paper, I manged to write eight pages of pure undiluted essay GOLD. I also managed to include the following high-brow concepts:

• Basically, Shakespeare didn't know shit and probably thought that the mistreatment of the natives slaves in the bahamas at the hand of cruel and malicious conquistadors was really funny.
  
• Some Pixies lyrics.
  
• Dreams are basically God's way of telling us that our inner psyches are fucked up.
  
• I was talking about a horse getting beaten to death for like three paragraphs. Man I hope that actually happened in some book or other or I am going to look silly.
  
• I started slagging off the main character of Zola's Germinal. I think I called him a 'wannabe moronic know-nothing loser'. Something like that. And then I made a load of sarcastic references to 'the capitalist swine'. Snigger I AM SO FUNNY WHEN DISCUSSING LITERATURE!! I bet that makes the examiner laugh. People who mark AEAE exams are alwaysssss up for a laugh, you know.
  
• "Even Jesus Christ makes a guest appearance." I actually wrote that what the hell was I thinking.
  
• Oh God.

Thinking about it... WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING? Oh well. I could fail the exam for all I care. Today life is plummy. Peachy. Happy. Whatever.

I have a hangover

So I'm really not putting much effort into this post. And when I say "much", I actually mean "any".

Hmm. I am faced with a difficult decision.

After taking on pro-paedophile (weirdos), anti-paedophiles (jerks), paedophiles in general (awesome), zit fetishists (disgusting) and bestiality enthusiasts (hairy) in previous blogs, I now have to make the tricky decision as to which world problem I solve next. This problem is more difficult than it would seem; there's only one of me to combat all the pain and horror in the world, and I also have to revise for my French and Advanced English exams. My time is short, and I have so much to give the world. After a lot of soul searching, I decided that racism should be my next big target.
Why racism? Why not AIDS, necrophilia, or genocide? All of those are equally hilarious subjects - why have I decided to take on the racists? The answer to that is simple: I too have suffered at the hands of the prejudiced. As a black jewish Shiite, I feel that I can really emphasise with the minorities in this case. And it's not like the problem of racism is getting better. IF ANYTHING IT'S GETTING WORSE. I mean, I was sitting on the train the other day, reading the Metro, and I came across a news story which simultaneously both shocked, disgusted AND AROUSED me. I mean, just look at this shit:



Disgusting. I mean, look at the expression on that black kid's fat little face. He's so sad. HE WANTED TO BE A HUNTER. He wanted to stalk the forest shooting wild animals, as is his right as a human being, and instead he has to huddle at the top of the trees, eating bananas and throwing his poo at other black people. Christ, I had no idea that instituationalised racism was still such a prevalent issue in our schools and theatres. I have a right mind to write a mean letter to somebody. Of course, I could understand if the teachers had some reasonable explanation for casting the only two black kids in the year as monkeys, but I can't imagine what that could be...

Historical accuracy
Back in the time when the play is set, there were no black hunters. All the hunters were white landowners. The black people only existed to wear little fezes and bellhop uniforms, and to dance around with chains tied round their necks to the tune of an organ-grinder. I'm not being racist - THAT'S THE HISTORICAL TRUTH. So the teachers wanted a little historical accuracy in their play... CAN YOU BLAME THEM? I guess the parents woulda been upset if it had been a school play of Anne Frank and their son didn't get cast as Adolf Hitler. ADOLF HITLER WASN'T BLACK. He was Spanish. You can't fuck about with history just to appease the minorities: FACT.

The teachers were all drunk
Basically, they all got totally pissed in the staffroom and came up with a the idea to cast the black kids as monkeys. Then they drank some more and just said LET'S DO IT WOOOOO!!!! and high-fived each other. And then when the drama teacher posted the list of roles up on the notice board with "Umbongo" and "Myles" as apes, everyone goes "I CAN'T BELIEVE SHE DID IT THAT'S SO AWESOME" and did that thing where you jump towards another person and bang chests in mid-air. Man I wish the teachers in my school were as awesome as the jokers that make up the staff of Ashley Downes Syndrome school.

It was ironic racism
Basically, they were being cleverly post-modern. Then when people complained they could just adopt a really condescending tone and say "I WAS BEING IRONIC". Then they could dress up in minstrel makeup, dance around singing "I AM A GOLLYWOG, WOLLY-GOLLY-WOLLY-GOG", and act really offended if anybody complained, citing it as a sad example of our overly liberal increasingly PC society. God damn. Can't people see that it's IRONY and thus we can say whatever we want!!!!!!! I reckon you could get away with doing anything just through the excuse of irony. "Charles Manson you are sentenced to fifteen life imprisonments in jail for murdering lots of people " "But guv I was being ironic! The murder was postmodern!" "Oh, I see. You were just PRETENDING to murder them to make a scatological choice, and you ended up murdering them anyway due to irony!" "Yeah, Irony!" "Go Irony! Charles Manson, you can go free!" "YEAH!"
Court would be awesome if it was really like that. So yeah, I think the teachers were just being ironic and the parents just didn't get the sophisticated humour. But can you blame them? They're black, it's a wonder they can even read.

Those are the only possible excuses I can think of for this appalling behaviour. But how can I combat racism? With protests? Political action? Vigilante extremism? NO. I'll just make fun of some random people on the internet like I always do. It has proven results of making me feel like a big man.

My idea is that I go all undercover reporter and ingratiate myself with a capricious group of gringo whitebread sausagemeat cracker flourbaby honkey motherfuckers, for example the Nobel Prizewinners over at Tight Rope, the number one website for people who would fellatiate Goebbels. I'd give myself a really neat racist username, like Hitler_was_neat, or Iluv2lynch or just something moody like tiny_penis_whiteboy and I'd pretend that I'm a 33 year old unemployed neo-nazi skinhead from Slough called Patrick who spends his days listening to Prussian Blue and setting fire to statues of Martin Luthor King Jr (except I'd call him Martin Lutor King KONG cos I'm so cool). Then I would somehow manage to ironically cuss them all to the floor and they'd be forced to change their ways and become black rap stars due to the burning power of my cussitude.

That would be PERFIC, I'd be simultaneously changing the world AND getting myself signed up and then permabanned from yet another uber-extreme hate site! This is gonna RULE!!!! Or not, I might just lose interest in that whole idea. Fuck black people, they can go sort out their own problems. I have enough on my plate. My love life has turned... interesting again, and I have keep getting these horrific conceptual mind-rushes of emotional revelational clarity. Like, I was watching Dr Who, and I suddenly had a terrifying mind-flash about how different the world will be in 2012. THINK OF ALL THE HISTORY AND SHIT THAT HAS OCCURED IN THE PAST SIX YEARS. AND IT WILL ALL HAPPEN GRADUALLY AND WE WON'T NOTICE AND HOLY SHIT WHAT AM I TALKING ABOUT.

You know, this post started off as just me posting a cartoon and saying 'Fuck this, this is all the blog you're getting'. And look what you've got: racism, newspaper clippings, drunk teachers, action against neo-nazis, philosophy, time travel, porn... and A CRAPPILY DRAWN CARTOON! You've really lucked out here. And I haven't done any French revision yet. Fuck, my exam is on Tuesday.



Tune in in about three days, when Emoboy's shocking origins are revealed through some sort of flashback style literary device. I don't know exactly what it'll involve but I'm sure that it will be awesome. When you find out who he really is under the hair, you will be both shocked and appalled. I don't think I'm giving anything away when I say that the big reveal is gonna be great.

Clamtastic!

I have a feeling that Thomas the Tank Engine might make a reappearance in this post

Last year, I took a holiday to wildest, deepest, shittiest part of the Congo jungle. This place was really crazy, full of cannibals and cannibis and, you know, frogs and shit. Well, after fifteen days hard trekking through the jungle, I came to a remote village that was built on a swamp. In this village, there were two rival groups of tribesmen: one group who were rotting away from ultrainfectious oozing bio-leprosy, and another that were covered in huge hyperinfectious burning ulcerous boils that spat acidic phlegm and constantly dribbled gooey pink lymph. These two tribes were constantly warring over who got to drink the liquid in the chemical toilets. Yes, they had chemical toilets. They didn't have healthcare, clothes, teeth, or sphincters, and the only music they had was Green Day and a really shitty pirate copy of Bonkers XI: Forevolution, but they had a long line of turquoise portaloos along the south boundary of the village. The wars between the tribes was both brutal and wussy; because they were all inbred and had tiny little stumps for legs, they weren't able to fight, so they sat in their houses and yelled pithy semi-rude insults at each other and high fived a lot. When I strode into the village, both tribes immediately invited me for dinner.
What did I do? What COULD I DO????? Well, I did the only thing that a decent Englishman can do. I looked left. I looked right. I then slowly backed out of that village as rapidly as I could decently manage, before breaking into a run. I fell into a ravine and was air-lifted home by the US air force, who then firebombed that godforsaken village off the map. I was hailed as a national hero, but the thought always plagues me - what happened to those two groups of tribesmen that led to them acting in such a disgusting and uber-icky way? Why did they want to drink the contents of that chemical toilet so much? Why didn't they just give it up and share the toilet, assuming that the outside world didn't care? I Just Dont Know.

At this point you must either have stopped reading this blog and gone back to surfing the net for pictures of a naked Natalie Portman getting shat on by Uri Geller, or you must be wondering just what exactly that story has to do with anything. If you're a member of the former group, I say good luck and fuck off, you sick bastard, but if you're part of the latter consortium, you're in luck, for I shall explain. The above story did not actually happen (GASP). No, it was just me describing the unpleasant situation I found myself in a few days ago, but describing it indirectly through the use of an ANALOGY.



Yes, an ANALOGY.



What's that, you say? An analogy? Should I use those in my English exams more?



Now I shall explain further. Ok, so everybody remembers my last post, in which I was eulogising the website Perverted Justice, yeah? The one with the picture of Emoboy cutting his wrists in the box full of paedophiles? Yes? Everyone remember that blog? The last one? Good. Ok, now everybody also understands the idea that I WAS NOT BEING FUCKING SERIOUS, right? IT WAS A JOKE. I AM NOT ACTUALLY SLAVISHLY PRO-PERVERTED JUSTICE, I WAS BEING IRONIC. I WAS BEING IRONIC DAMNIT! IRONIC!
Where is that damn locomotive?



It was. A. JOKE. For fuck's sake. And, to be honest, I thought that it would pass pretty much without comment. After all, the paedophiles (who are actually very intelligent and really nice once you get to know them better) would get the irony and go 'A, ho ho, I understand the joke and I will continue to read the website and laugh at the witty humour of the writer while I bugger this three year old'. The members of TEAM PERVERTED JUSTICE: THE ONLY JUSTICE LEAGUE IN AMERICA (as I have taken to call them in the past three seconds), well, they're probably too busy to notice, their days being filled as they are with catching revolting jism-splattered paedo-werewolves in giant mousetraps and harpooning the great while paedo-whale Moby Pinkdick who roams the North Sea and molests the cabin boys. And I credit the general public with enough intelligence to be able to figure out for themselves what is going on inside this delightful noggin of mine. However, there was one group of intelligenti that I somehow misunderestimated, one brilliant gaggle of future world-leaders who were unable to decipher the simple and quite obvious ejaculation of bitingly sizzling sarcasm that passed for my last blog. Who are these guys, I hear nobody cry. WHO? Ladies and gentleman, I give you Corrupted Justice dot com.

A wise philosopher once said:

"For every ying there is a yang, for every right there is a wrong, for every good an evil"

...or something, and philosophers are always right. That's why you see so many rich philosophers: they ALWAYS know what's going on. The guy who figured out the answer to the infamous "If a tree falls over in a forest and there's nobody around to hear it, does it make a sound?" riddle (answer: No) now lives in a diamond encrusted house built entirely out of the lips of famous Hollywood actresses. That's how rich he is. So nobody dare try to doubt the wisdom of the philosophers. Although, that quote might have been said by Neo, not a philosopher. Whatever; once again they are proven 100% correct by Corrupted Justice. Corrupted Justice (as you can tell by their really clever name which is actually just a hononym of Perverted and thus means EXACTLY THE SAME as their nemeses's) is the inevitable backlash to the rigorous purging of the paedo-scum of the internet by Perverted Justice. Apparently they reckon that the whole 'let's go vigilante and beat up that pervert with bicycle chains' angle of the PeeJ scheme is somehow morally wrong, and so spend their time campaigning against the tactics of the Perverted Justicisers.
Wait, let me work this out. Perverted Justice are anti-paedophiles. Corrupted Justice are anti-Perverted Justice, and thus ipso facto are anti-anti-paedophiles, thus PRO-paedophiles, which leads me to believe that the entire population of Corrupted Justice are busily masturbating over pictures of Dakota Fanning and that baby from Ghostbusters 2 while angrily whingeing about how mean the heroic Perverted Justice team are.

Their website (Motto: Two Wrong Don't Make A Right, which seems to violate some basic law of mathetmatics) claims that
"We at Corrupted-Justice.com do not condone pedophilia or any inappropriate contact between adults and children" but I think we all know what's going on here: Bumming two year olds is fun and that's all there is to it. So while they hide behind their morally upstanding facade of respectability, they are all busily kidnapping foetuses and Etcha-Sketching Lolicon pr0n. I mean, you type 'Corrupted Justice" into Google, and look what you get:



A young boy dressed in fetish dungarees clearly being fellatiated by an 80 year old. Case closed, take them away. Freaks.

So basically, due to the exciting nature of the internet, one of the party-pooping babyfuckers on Corrupted Justice (or as I think they should call it, WE-RAPE-TODDLERS.ORG) somehow got hold of the previous PeeJ post off this blog and copied it into a forum. Now, they were busily discussing how mean and nasty the badass motherfuckers at PeeJ were for the way they beat down fifteen suicide-paedos in a shopping mall last Tuesday, but they decided to put that conversation on hold for a bit while they turned their dead, listless eyes towards my innocent little piece of writing. It's well documented that shagging tiny tots has degenerative effects on one's brain power, but I didn't realise how bad it was for one's sense of humour. ALL OF THEM TOTALLY MISREAD IT. They all took it at face value and proceeded to vent their dirty little spleens onto the internet in a spray of dried Ready Brek, greasy yellow spittle, and chewed up Playmobil. Dickheads.

I mean, am I being harsh? If you'd read the sentence "I saw a news story the other day about a boy who got a medal for rescuing his baby brother from a housefire. Fuck him, that award shoulda gone to Perverted Justice", even if you weren't adept at spotting subtle irony, you'd be able to figure out that I wasn't actually being serious? I mean, as irony goes, that's about as subtle as being beaten across the back of the head by a lump of wood. Tied to a bit of concrete. With sledgehammers. Weilded by Mr T. On crack. On a hot day in June in the middle of Central Park while the birds are singing and the sky is bright surrounded by small children eating hot dogs. Even if you were mentally retarded, you must have twigged that I wasn't exactly being serious. SURELY.

"Carly", a "True conversationalist" of We-Rape-Toddlers.org, highlighted this sentence and said: "A child who risks his own life to save his brother from a fire is less deserving of a medal? Actually, not even less deserving. The way he states it, does not deserve it at all.. some children are worth saving more than others, is that it?"

"CJ Black Widow" a member of the "Corrupted Justice Management", chimed in: I guess if they arent using the internet, they arent worth saving. After all, to many people at PJ, the internet IS their world and anything or anyone outside of it is not important.

See, I think that she was trying to be ironic there, which makes the total lack of comprehension of the FUCKING OBVIOUS USE OF IT IN THIS BLOG SO DAMN DEPRESSING. Still, that's not as bad as the response of "SonOfAGun", who describes himself as a "wordsmith", who pointed out my claim that "Literally millions of children are being kidnapped every day" AND FAILED TO SEE THAT I WAS JOKING. Christ on a bike. So they can't even use the excuse that they didn't read it properly. They actually trawled the entire blog to pick up the suspect phrases (which was all of it) and failed to notice it's obviously made-up nature.

I couldn't just let the matter rest as it was, so I was forced to create my OWN user account on Corrupted-Justice.com (I considered making my Username Super Monster Raving Peadoman but settled on Chainsawzombie as to not confuse them further) just to mock and insult them. After defining irony, telling them to drill open their skulls and generally mocking them, there was a flurry of responses from CeeJayers claiming that they had known allll along that I was being ironic and they'd laughed their butts off at my irony. Yeah, right. NOW YOU LAUGH. I bet you were busily angrily fuming at my claim that PeeJ wiped out half the paedophilia in America and looking up statistical information to conclusively prove me wrong. Pah.
And then there was one twat who got all offended about the harsh tone of my comment - "There's no reason to go ballistic with swearing, images of disfigurement / torture, and encouragement to commit suicide". Alright mate, calm down. Firstly, there is ALWAYS a reason to go ballistic with swearing, images of disfigurement / torture, and encouragement to commit suicide. Secondly, trepanning is not torture, it is a legitimate medical procedure and I would appreciate you not knocking it. Thirdly, your screen name is "PJ Buster" and you spent last night photoshopping a picture of a baby's head onto a horse's cock, so I'll happily ignore your comment thankyouverymuch.

And, possibly to prove that they were all right-on guys and weren't just a bunch of weird creeps who hang about on internet messageboards, everyone on the Corrupted Justice welcomed me heartily and started sending me private messages telling me how awesome I was and (probably) asking me if I wanted to go back to their house to watch cartoons and eat lollypops.

Which leads me back, quite neatly, or in this case, convolutedly, to the original analogy. The two disgusting tribes? Perverted Justice and Corrupted Justice. The invitation to dinner? The unspoken demand that I either wanted to join the Corrupted Justice team and spend my time bitching about how nasty Perverted Justice were, or I wanted to go pretend to be a little teenage girl on the internet to trap paedophiles. Me running off and firebombing them? This blog, in which I formally announce my total seperation from those two weirdos. But let me elaborate a bit (fuck knows, this blog is already long enough as it is). Because Cee and Pee J have pretty much proved that they can't be trusted with the basic fundamentals of humour, I am going to set this out very clearly:

I don't care about paedophiles. I think they are funny. A month ago I had no clue that vigilante anti-paedophile groups even existed, let alone internet vigilante anti-paeophile groups, let alone internet vigilante anti-anti vigilante groups. It's just a dark depressing corner of the internet that I like to pretend does not exist. Now quit sending me private messages you losers. And while you're at it, stop compulsively posting on chat forums about paedophilia. It's not healthy. Go outside and kiss a girl (when I say 'girl', I mean 'woman'. Not 'prebubescent', you sick fucks). You know who comes out of this whole mess looking the best? The paedophiles. At least they don't waste their lives bitching on forums about themselves. Plus, they're snappy dressers and are so good with kids.

Oh, I have apparently descended into irony again. I guess that's the only language I speak. That and swearing.

(None of the above applies to MrsCake, the lady who introduced me to the wonderfully depraved world of Corrupted Justice. She is lovely. And what a tight ass)

The long-awaited second paedophile post

I love the sitemeter on my blog. It lets me view all the pages and internet searches that people have performed in order to reach my blog. Some of them are awesome. I mean, did you know that if you type "Celebs with Spackers" or "Spackers guide to maths" into Google search, this blog comes up first on the list? Above all the sites on the entire internet, according to Google, this is the number ONE site for famous people standing next to the physically and mentally handicapped, or quadratic equations. That made me giggle like a girl. It also made me very, VERY proud of myself.
However, when you look at many of the other searches highlighted on sitemeter, that pride swiftly evaporates like a fresh morning dew, to be replaced by the clodden vomit of late night disgust and revulsion. I mean, in the past few days alone, the following searches have been made on various internet search engines to reach this haven of entertainment:

• Lardo Washer Dryer
  
• Regrow Tonsils
  
• Bruise on End of Penis STI
  
• Forced panty wetting
  
• Girls still sucking milk from momma's breast
  
• Horse porn

Christ. It's somewhat bracing to realise that this blog is read both by people searching for fat kitchen machines, men with bruised penii and HORSE PORN OBSESSIVES. Remember that post a few blogs back when I was talking about horse porn? "...next week I will probably be running a five-day masterclass on women who get turned on by shetland ponies..." Remember that? Yeah? I WAS JOKING YOU PERVERTS. For feck's sake.

(If you came here specifically for the shetland pony masterclass, don't worry, I haven't forgotten you. Keep reading... I'll probably get round to it by Saturday)

I actually felt somewhat violated that I'd had real live perverts on this blog. I mean, it's the first time I've come into contact with this sort of thing; I thought internet perverts were just make-believe monsters to scare children, kind of like Boogiemen, black people, or the Pope. I guess I was wrong. WHY HAVEN'T WE YOUNG PEOPLE BEEN WARNED THAT THERE MIGHT BE SEXUAL PREDATORS ON THE INTERNET? I seriously don't think that I have even once been told repeatedly about the risks by some moronic children's television presenter or quasi-hardhitting documentary. There should be more advertisements up telling us the dangers of talking to strange men online, because, Christ, I have yet to digest that message, what with the total lack of media attention to this urgent and pressing problem. You know what I think we need? Some sort of huge advert on Hotmail that features a girl smiling and saying "I met up with somebody I met online" but then she RIPS OFF HER FACE to reveal a sad girl saying "I GOT RAPED BY SOMEONE I MET ONLINE". And they should play that advert every time I go onto Hotmail and lock up my computer. And then every time I go onto Hotmail it freezes I'm forced to watch that advert like seven times until my computer unfreezes and I can to go my inbox and discover that it was just a newsletter from Play.com or something. That would rule. An advert using that sort of technique would be really hardhitting and effective, you know? It'd stop the sexual predators in their greasy little tracks. Oh, if only.

But until the time comes when the government realises that literally millions of children are being kidnapped every day by internet paedophiles, we need our own system of protection; gunslingers of the internet, lone wolves who stop at nothing to hunt down and exterminate these pathetic wastes of flesh who want to destroy the lives of young girls by having consensual cyber-sex with them. We need some modern day Achilleses to pierce the breastplates of these foul, inhuman monsters with their spears of riteous revenge and their barbs of well-placed cutting comments. I mean, to exemplify, the brave and hearty souls of retribution and protection at my new number one favourite website on the entire internet, Perverted-Justice.com.

The guys and gals at Perverted Justice do an invaluable and courageous service to the rest of the world community and fight tirelessly against the ever-encroaching waves of paedophilia and necrophiliacy that is chewing away at the foundations of the internet's moral structure. Basically, what they do is they pretend to be young girls and go onto yahoo in order to talk to wannabe paedophiles. Then they make sure they're genuine, before POSTING THE CONVERSATIONS ONLINE and then making the paedophiles come to a fake house, before jumping out with cameras and catching said paedos in a giant butterfly net. No, I'm not joking.

Now, I don't know about you, but I think that that's the most heroic thing I have ever heard of. It takes some guts to talk to a paedophile (remember, they are well known for their skills at hypnotism and, as I think I have mentioned previously, are able to physically reach through the computer screen and drag children through into the ether), and EVEN MORE GUTS to post the log of the conversation on the internet. Literally, the brave souls on Perverted Justice (Motto: As Long As Our Children Aren't Safe From Predators... Predators Aren't Safe From US!, which I think sends the right message) deserve every award for heroism going. I saw a news story the other day about a boy who got a medal for rescuing his baby brother from a housefire. Fuck him, that award shoulda gone to Perverted Justice. What a fecken whitewash; I demand a recount.

Now, there are some people out there (probably paedophiles) who say that Perverted Justice (PeeJ) is just a pointless exercise in vicarious self-gratification by wannabe sham-heroic self-riteous do-gooders who like assuming a comfortably unarguable position of the moral superiority - because, after all, who can argue in FAVOUR of paedophiles? You'd have to be one yourself, or just using a very long and convoluted system of irony to mask your intentions, but I can't imagine how that could be achieved - while ignoring the root of the actual problem and concentrating on demonising certain anonymous members of society while simultaneously whipping up a sense of hysterical fear in an already moronically overprotective and paranoid internet community.

Those people are idiots. PeeJ are making real progress in stopping paedophilia DEAD in America (I mean, they've already had 61 convictions... why, that must be almost half of all the paedophiles in America wiped out through fines and three month jail sentences!) and are in no way simply over-hyping the problem. I mean, the section called 'PeeJ Wankers' in which they webcam video various perverts jerking off to 'Ten year olds' is a very useful video example of what basically every person on the internet is like.

And anyway, people who don't recognise the invaluable public service that PeeJ are doing must SURELY agree that, you know, it's all great fun to read. The chat logs are simultaneously some of the most revolting and some of the most compelling shit I have EVER LAID EYES UPON in my entire life. I might put some of that on my UCAS form for University. "Yes, I have read many great classics over the past year... Zola's Germinal, a bit of William Faulkner, Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. Oh, and I also spent an hour and a half reading the chat log in which vamale_692005 persuades sweet_erin78 to have sex with a dog. Man, the vamale_692005 (who I have affectionately named "Vammy-Vam-Brer") was a fecken classic. He rode a motorbike and tried to persuade this girl to let him film her screwing a dog while being peed on. Comedy.

What especially makes this site classy, and really proves to me that it's just not an exercise in self-riteous gratification (I like those words) are the little comments that the various contributors add to the chats. Usually these comments are wisecracks that do nothing to detract from the serious educational flow of the chat, although on certain occasions are just random insults thrown in to show how smart and cool the PeeJ hero is. Eg:
(The jokes comments are underlined)

vamale_692005 (9:39:30 PM): so what will you do with this? (Run far and fast)
LOL!!!! SHE BURNED HIM GOOOD!!!!!1!!!!!111!!!

vamale_692005 (7:56:31 PM): I am not freaking you out am I but talking about this? ( No, you are making me ill)
ROTFL!!!!!!1!!!!! LMAO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

vamale_692005 (8:47:57 PM): listen I dont know if I will have my second piercing in on friday
sweet_erin78 (8:48:09 PM): oh y?
vamale_692005 (8:48:25 PM): because it got caught on my boxers today and pulled pretty good...the hole is sore with it in ( Hahaha. I smirked with great pleasure when I read this)
LOLLERCAUST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I think the comments really prove how mature and clearheaded Perverted Justice really is. I mean, it's like poking a bear with a stick once it's in its cage and there's no way it can possibly fight back. Some people might say that it's cruel, pointless, and sadistic, but I say "What was the bear doing in that cage in the first place? It's its own bloody fault". And anyway, we all know that men who want to have sex with fifteen year old girls are subhuman anyway, and should probably locked away in concentration camps and starved to death in great numbers. That would be a perfect Final Solution to this paedophile question.

The Continuing and Increasingly Convoluted Adventures of Emoboy!


I hope that Perverted Justice can visit this blog soon and catch the twisted freak who came on here searching for horse porn, and fast! I feel that I am getting more and more traumatised as time goes by.

(By the way, if anybody can think of any more adventures for Emoboy to have, or, hey, even a slightly different joke, please tell me. As you might be able to tell, the idea well for Emoboy kind of went dry after the first cartoon.)

The Saga Continues

News
I am currently undergoing a crisis of confidence. I'll report back when I have:
a: Resolved it, or
b: Wussed out and taken the easy route.

Don't hold your breath for a. If anybody wants to offer me any advice on how to resolve this issue, well, just post a comment. However, I can't actually give you any information about the crisis, who is involved, or what my problem is. It could involve anybody. It could even involve... YOU. Well, not you. But YOU.

And in other news, I clicked 'Publish blog', and blogger informed me that my blog had not been found. "The blog you were looking for was not found."
Hmm. Perhaps chainsawzombie.blogspot.com has just fallen relentlessly into the Ether of the internet. That is worrying. So you lot are possibly not reading this at all. Which means that i can make as many typsos as i want and nobody is gven going to tlel me to correct men them. hahhahehhahra!!!!!!!!!!!!! I RULE

(Edit: It published successfully. Which means that my typos are left open and swinging in the breeze for the entire interweb to peruse. Is that even a word? Peruse. Hmm.)

How to get an A at AS level History (which I hopefully did yesterday)

Boy. Well, that was interesting. And when I say 'interesting', I actually mean 'mind-numbingly boring'. History exams are literally the longest things ever; basically, two and a half hours of solid writing. My wrist hurts so much after that trek of an exam. And what the hell is the Nazi Revolution? I had to do an essay on the Nazi Revolution and I have literally no idea what it is. I still managed to write three and a half sides of incisive comment that covered a variety of topics, while including an in-depth discussion of the true definition of the word 'revolution' and the point at which you can imagine a revolution complete. I am THAT good.

Hmm. Well, I got to practise my essay-writing some more in that exam, and I'm pretty sure that at this point I have more or less sharpened my skillz at the ol'dissertations to such a degree that I could use them to slice millimetre thick incisions through any sort of essay that might suddenly come my way. For example:

"The Nazi revolution was complete by August 1933," To what extent do you agree with this statement?"
Sliced!!!!! DICED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! CUUUUUUBED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Look out behind you, it's a "To what extent was Imperialism a popular policy in Britain from 1880-1902? essay!
BEHEAD'D!!!!!! GUTTED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh crap, it's a "Revenge was the sole motive for the creation of the Treaty of Versailles" - To what extent is this statement true?
*I throw my metaphorical ninja sword at the essay and dissect it with wicked logic and a touch of rhetorical skill, before kicking it to death with my hobnailed boots of metaphor and my wooden stick of relevant examples, before pissing a warm stream of historian's opinions over its mangled corpse.*

I am so good at essay writing now. I have got it down to such an art, I could write an essay about ANYTHING without even blinking an eye. I mean, I'd have to be allowed to make up some stuff or do a bit of revision first, cos, you know, if you asked me to write an essay about chloroform bonding or oxbow lakes or something then I really wouldn't have a clue. But if I had a basic knowledge of the subject which I was allowed to sort of flesh out with made up examples and non-related discussion of trivial issues, I reckon I could write a kickass essay about anything, from Mendez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, to whether or not the boers were a bunch of pussy-boy farmers.
(I actually used those words in my middle essay, btw. "The boers were a bunch of pussy-boy farmers". Well, something like that. That is one of the joys of history essays. You are allowed to write whatever racist/biased/misogynistic shit you like, just so long as you put it in quote marks. For example, "I hate black people". I'M NOT RACIST, IT WAS A QUOTE FROM A RACIST PERSON I AM JUST USING IT TO EXPRESS A POINT OF VIEW!!!. Damn niggers.)

Now, let me let you in on a little secret: The key to good essay writing in the Me Style is contained in just a few incredibly easy to remember rules. Follow these rules and you will get a guaranteed A at A-Level History (and English Literature). I really hope that I got an A now, or this entire post will make me look like a right dickhead. Well, my history teacher specifically told me that I was "bloody good" (his words, not mine), and he went to Oxford. A year ago. I think that he spent most his time drunk. He told us he lives in a squat with no electricity. He still lives like such a student. IT DOESN'T MAKE HIS COMPLIMENT OF ME ANY LESS VALID.

(Yes, I really am writing a blog about essay-writing. On my day off school.)

Rule the First: It's History, just write about whatever the fuck you want. This is an important rule to remember. Many candidates are lacking in imagination and stick stringently to the specific topic described by question. If they're answered a question about, say, the popular effect of Imperialism, well, that's all they talk about. Now, that's ok, I guess, for some, the stoic, steady candidates who will be happy with their B pluses and get boring jobs in cubicals and rot to death over a period of five years. But the really smart candidates, the outstandingly exceptional ones (I find myself hard pressed not to use the word 'genii' in this context), they realise that basically you can write about whatever you want, as long as you somehow link it back to the original question. And this is History... everything can be linked together in some way.
Writing an essay about the Treaty of Versailles? Can't remember the day, month, OR year in which it was signed? No problem, just start talking about colonial problems in the Balkans in the late 1870s! You can link it back and it makes you look much smarter than the rest of the date-spewing, fact regurgitating drek that takes AS level history. Doing some discussion of Nazi propaganda techniques? Don't really know what you're talking about? Who cares, just give a detailed account of the Cuban Missile crisis, or the 1066 invasions. Fuck it, write a book review of the latest Anthony Horrorwitz piece of shit! Who cares? If you link it together and you'll get extra marks for being special!
This is like my number one rule for, A: Appearing clever, and B: Making your essay varied when you're running out of things to say, and C: Filling page space. As soon as the revelation struck me that I could write about anything, all my worries about History exams were over.

Rule the Second: Remember all the key information using aide-memoires. The word aide-memoire is a piece of Arabic lexicon meaning "By the many heads of Allah I shall cut down the infidels with my spear of knowledge and my suicide bomb of preparation". Basically, it means that the easiest way of learning key stuff is to simplify it to a stupid degree and then hope that your brain has the mental fortitude to unpack it again. In this manner, I managed to squish the entire political career of British statesman and Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli KG PC, 1st Earl of Beaconsfield, leader of the Conservatives and espouser of the pro-patriotic pro-imperial policies of Empire into the idea that he was a bit of a jew and thus was all for conquering other nations for money. I also realised that this meant that he was more interested in protecting British economic prospects in the Balkans than helping the Christians in the Ottoman Empire... because he was a jew! It all fit perfectly (and acted as a little memory-jog for the Nazi anti-semitism... so you see, all the racist shit that I say isn't racist... IT'S REVISION) and so I re-christened Disraeli "Jewsraeli". I guess I could have just noticed that the word 'israel' is contained INSIDE HIS NAME but that is beside the point: the name Jewsraeli stuck.
I also somehow got it into my head that he looked kind of like a goat with some funky sideburns. Not sure how I got that impression, but, hey I wasn't complaining. So in the exam, when I needed to write about Disraeli, I thought to myself 'Hmm, jewish goat with funky sideburns... aha! Pro-imperialist! Anti-Russia! I win!'

To be honest, I looked him up yesterday and I do think that I was onto something with my 'goat' theory;


Not joking, I see a similarity.

Rule the Third: No matter what the question is, start your essay with a critical evaluation of the definition of the words contained in the title. This is a brilliant technique, and allows you to use my patented Standard Opening (tm):

The issue of *Insert Issue here* is a very interesting question that historians have argued for years, and is one that still generates a great deal of heated discussion. There are two sides to this debate which can argue with equal ferocity, which is what makes it one of the great debates of the time (This is good because it flatters the examiner by implying that the question is intelligent and controversial. You can always use this start becaue the question is ALWAYS controversial. I mean, they are hardly going to give you "The holocaust was a bad. To what extent is this true?" as the question, ARE THEY? No, they're going to be devastatingly original and feature a controversial topic variation that we've never seen before. Wow, another question about the Treaty of Versailles? Hold me before I disgorge my own liver with excitement.)
However, when answering this question (Ooh, remember to always use lots of redundant words... it makes you look smart!) ... it is important to first define the meaning of "Insert key word here*. This is a very emotive and personally descriptive word which can mean a variety of definitions, from *Insert Definition 1* to *Insert Definition 2*.
(This is the masterstroke. Basically, you waste a page arguing about what the fuck you are meant to be discussing. As well as being piss-easy to write, this technique makes me look really smart, because it shows that I am using a much deeper metaphorical spade to dig below the sandy surface of the rhetoric of the question. Examiners love this shit. So all you need is to think of two different definitions of the key word in the question. Can't think of a second definition? Then you're probably too stupid to do history: if you use a little imagination, ANY word can have a second definition, and if you can't think of one, just make it up. I mean, can 'popular' REALLY also mean 'influential and well-followed in the social sphere'? I don't think so, but did that stop me from putting it in the ol'essay? NO IT DIDN'T.)

So in conclusion, just write whatever you want, re-imagine all the historical figures as grumpy farm animals and spend the first page engaged in a pointless semantic debate, and you'll be on easy street for quick marks.
Hmm. When I put it that way, my patented essay technique doesn't seem that smart at all. In fact, it seems pretty damn stupid.

Oh maaaaan, I'm gonna fail History hardcore stylee. Oh well.



I found this picture on the back of one of my revision sheets. I don't remember drawing it at all. Oh well.

I got a sub 7 2k erg!

"What? Huh? What does that mean? What did he say? A sub seven WHAT? I don't get it! I'm so dumb!"

The above is probably what most of you are thinking. Well, either that or

"What is this stupid blog? Where's all the horse porn? When I go onto a blog, I want horse porn! I don't go searching through all these blogs to be told that the author has got a sub 7 2K erg, whatever that might mean. I want horse porn. I mean, donkey porn is acceptable but to be honest, it's horses that really turn my crank. Man, I hope he stops telling me about his sub 7 2k erg and instead starts talking about horse penises soon."

If you belong to the second school of thought, I'm sorry, there won't be any discussion of horse related sex on this blog today. However, next week I will probably be running a five-day masterclass on women who get turned on by shetland ponies, which is nearly horse porn, so tune in then. No, today I shall be discussing the sub 7 2k erg that I got yesterday.

"But Thomas, what is a sub 7 2K erg? Please tell us because we are DYING to know!"

Well, loyal fanbase, a sub 7 2K erg is essentially composed of TWO main factors: the 2k erg, and the sub seven bit.

A 2K erg: A test of manhood. You know how ancient tribes used to send their young men out into the wild to capture and have sex with wild horses, or survive all alone in the arctic, naked save for a pair of socks and a penguin, or made them go skinny dipping in volcanoes to prove that they were worthy of the title of manhood? You know how they used to chase the young men about with sticks, beating them about the back until they passed out due to lack of blood? You know how they made them complete the Big Hand level on F-0 X without taking their finger off the accelerator? Well, those were all tests of manhood. If the young man failed said test, he didn't get to become a man; in fact, his penis fell off and he was forced to regrow a new one from scratch: FACT.
A 2k erg (or 'ergo' or 'ergometer') is basically one of these tests of manhood; you can either pass, or you can fail. If you fail, your penis drops off and you are subject to ridicule and mockery. Wild dogs will attack you in the park, barbers will shave off your eyebrows, and old women will urinate on your head in the street. You will not be worthy of the title of 'man' and you will be forced to wear women's underwear and walk about with a wiggle, talking with a lisp and calling everybody 'ducky', 'sweatpea' or 'hot hunka man'. Failure at 2K ergos is the number one cause of homosexuality in men. Success at 2K ergos is the number one cause of lesbianism in women, oddly enough.
However, if you are successful in the 2k erg, you get risen up to the status of a God amongst men. Your image is graven in gold and the air itself parts to allow you to walk past. You raise your muscled, manly arms, and women swoon at your feet. You can leap buildings with a single bound, you can, like, be really strong and stuff and you could beat the shit out of that pussy-boy Superman in both arm, thumb AND naked-oil wrestling.

"How do I do a 2K?" I hear you cry, as you too wish to be men. Like me. Simple. You will need the following things:

1. A muscled body, toned from years of hard weight-lifting and general manliness. (Which I have)
2. A lycra all-in-one, possibly with a tiny hole in it near the crotch. The most stretched and bleached of colour this lycra all-in-one is, the better it will serve, as it just makes you look even more rugged and snugglable. This all-in-one should also not have been washed for at least the past three weeks, as the aroma of hard sweat just gives you extra powers.
3. Some awesome music. This music must be a clever blend of intelligent, beautifully virtuistic music and clever alliterative, always changing vocals, sung by recording artists with a real personality and history. For this reason, I recommend "The Way (Radio Edit)" by Divine Inspiration. It's about a woman who apparently knows the way somewhere, if only the person in question will just put HIS HAND IN HER HAND. For some reason, he never does and she is forced to keep asking him to do so. It's a good song.
4. Balls. Doing a 2K erg is not for pussy boy footballers, pansy-pants rugger players or, heaven forbid, a limp-wristed pansy walking squareheaded panty wearing liver stuffing BASKETBALL PLAYERS. The rest of you sports take note; the only sportsmen manly enough to succeed in the hard world of 2k ergos are THE ROWERS. So basically, anyone else can go fuck off and throw a ball into a hoop. Ooh, big woop, you threw the ball through the hoop TRY DOING SOME PROPER EXERCISE YOU FUCKERS.
5: One of these bad boys:



This is called an 'ergo'. It is basically a medieval torture device. You pretend to row on it and it measures how fast you are going, while simultaneously firing red hot iron needles into the bottom of your legs if you don't move fast enough. It also features a nifty 'predicted time' setting which is always useful. What you do, right, is you sit on said ergo, strap yourself in, then program '2000 m' into it (YOU GET IT BECAUSE 'K' STANDS FOR KILOMETER AKA 1000M AND '2' IS THE NUMBER OF KILOMETERES AKA 2 OMG THATS SO CLEVER!). You then row flat out for 2k, or until your spleen bursts open and you simply split apart in a tendony mess of phlegm and membraneous tissue that takes a fucking hour to clean up with tissues.

Sub 7: Well, 'sub' refers either to a type of ship that the military uses to dive underwater and blow up sperm whales with torpedos, or a type of sandwitch that is said to resemble the aforementioned ship. However, it can also mean 'below', which is what it means in this context. Context, after all, is EVERYTHING.
And the 7? That refers to the number of minutes that it took to complete the 2000m on the ergo (or the time it takes to explode in a tendony mass of phlegm and membraneous tissue). Now, usually one would think "well, what does it matter if the time is sub 7 or not?" IT MATTERS. Now, I could be talking in fluent hyperbole here, but it's scientifically proven that the difference between sub and super 7 minutes on an ergo is, uh, about the most important thing in the world ever. It's like the difference between black and white, between thick and thin, between life and death, between acids and alkalis, between blog posts that go on too long and blog posts that just don't go on long enough. There is a WORLD OF DIFFERENCE between getting a time of seven minutes and one second, and six minutes fifty-nine. A WORLD of pain is contained in those two tiny iccle seconds. A galaxy of pain. A universe. Of pain.

To highlight the essential difference between a 2k ergo time of above seven minutes, and one below, I would like to take some time out for a brief history lesson. Back in the medieval ages, Charles Darwin, the high wizard of King Henry VIII, proposed a system of classification of all living organisms known, for some reason, as the 'Linnaeal system', in which animals were grouped according to their various characteristics. Darwin was burnt at the stake by a bunch of disgruntled debt collectors in 1972, and his system was mostly forgotten, replaced by the lesser-known Dental System, in which animals were rated on the sharpness of their teeth, before the Groove System was introduced in the 60's, which placed every living organism on a sliding scale according to their relative levels of groove. There are pros and cons to all these different systems of classification. However, I would like to highlight the strengths of the Redgrave System of classification as being far superior to all of these other systems, as it fits every living organism into one of two finite named groups. To exemplify, here's a picture of the Redgrave system at work:

The Redgrave System of Classification.


See? Easy, simple, accurate, and it works.

But how do I measure up? Well, according to the Redgrave system, as of half past four on Friday, I am NOT scum. I am a real man. I achieved a time on a 2K ergo of less than seven minutes. HEAR THAT? LESS THAN SEVEN. I ACHIEVED AN ERGO OF SUB SEVEN MINUTES. AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, I FINALLY DID IT. I AM LESS THAN SEVEN. I AM A GOD AMONGST MEN. WORSHIP ME.
What was this time, I hear you ask? Ok, well, prepare yourselves. If you need the toilet, I advise you to go now, because you are about to be belly-punched with the awesomeness of my time. You WILL wet yourself in an explosion of urine and diahhrea and I'm not gonna be responsible for cleaning up that mess. Ok, you ready to hear my time? Are you? I would move any elderly relatives out of the room before you read this, because really they shouldn't be subjected to something this amazing. Ok. Are they out of the room? Actually, shoo away household pets too. Don't want your pet poodle being defribulated by my time. Which is awesome.

Ok.


Prepare yourselves.



My time was...






6 Minutes, 59 seconds, point six.


HAHAHAHAHHAHA! TAKE THAT, SEVEN MINUTE BOUNDARY, YOU UNHOLY CUNT! I BEAT YOU DOWN! I RAPED YOU! SEE THAT 0.4 OF A SECOND? THAT'S HOW MUCH BETTER THAN YOU I AM. MWAHAHHAHAH!

After I finished my ergo, following the world's most terrifying 100m dash (the predicted time gave me 7 minutes dead and I was forced to ergo so hard I think that I might have accidentally shat out my own liver (it happens) in order to jack up the rate and to push myself there), I celebrated in an unusually fervant manner (This account interestingly changes tense half way through. This is definitely intentional and certainly not carelessness resulting from me writing this at 1.25 in the morning):

• I saw the figure '6.59.06' imprinted on the screen of the ergo and I gave a piercing victory scream, while simultaneously unhooking my feet from the ergo.
  
• I fell off the ergo and lay comatose on the floor on my front, basically crying like a little girl.
  
• Lying on my front made me feel like throwing up, so I sort of crawled like an epileptic catterpillar away from the ergo and heaved myeslf onto my back. I stared at the ceiling. Lights danced around my vision. Every muscle on my body was screaming for blood AND I ONLY HAD SO MUCH TO GO AROUND. Therefore, blood was taken away from key areas (ie my brain and stomach and the vital organs) to satisfy my legs. I'm pretty sure I gave myself an embolism.
  
• Somebody nearly stepped on my head. I raised a hand weakly. "Please help me get up," I whispered, realising that A: I had literally fucked my legs over so much, I was totally unable to move them, and B: I had to cycle seven kilometers home INTO THE WIND. The person ignored me.
  
• My rowing coach walked up to me and sort of looked in my face, grinning. I raised a weak, puppy-dog arm up to him to try to get him to help me sit up. He shook it and said 'well done', before walking off.
  
• The other rowing coach walks into the ergo room and looks dispassionately at me, lying on the floor and screaming for breath while my entire muscular structure implodes. "Did you get sub-7?" he asks. I very weakly give a thumbs up. "What time?" he asks. I weakly manage to cough out the figure. The amount of oxygen that was denied my brain while I was speaking will probably mean that I become mentally retarded later in life. But hey, who cares? The rowing coach winks at me and walks away.
  
• I hear the first rowing coach talking to the guy two ergos down from me, who is already walking out of the room, none the worse for wear. He got a score 0.2 of a second better than mine. I am so glad to hear about it.
  
• I'm still unable to even sit up. I sort of wave my arms pathetically in the air until somebody walks over and helps me up. I nearly weep with gratitude.
  
• I walk out of the ergo room. After my second step, my thigh cramps up and I nearly fall over. After that, a muscle cramps with every step I take. I look like a cactus.
  
• I sit on a bench. "Ok, breathe, don't concentrate on the searing pain in your legs and chest, concentrate on your heartbeat," I think to myself. I suddenly notice the searing cramping pain in my wrists and hands. And heart. The fact that I suddenly want to vomit fairy cakes and strawberry sauce (admittedly, not an ideal pre-ergo snack) all over myself also comes unpleasantly to mind.
  
• I stand up again and fall over on the grass, where I lie, curled in a foetal ball, for the next twenty minutes. My heartbeat still does not slow down. Ants start to eat my eyeballs and a thistle gets stuck up my ear. I don't notice; I'm pretty sure the top layer of skin in my body is technically dead.
  
• I dry heave about four times. A bit of toast comes out. In front of me, somebody voms yellow stuff over a bush. This obviously helps me to feel less ill.
  
• I sit up. "This isn't so bad," I think, before noticing the tearing sensation across my chest. I lie down again for another ten minutes. If I could move my arm, I would start sucking my thumb.
  
• One of the rowing coaches looks at me as I lie in my little ball. "You look like SHIT," he says helpfully, laughs, then walks back into the ergo room before I can squeak a witty reply.
  
• I finally stand up again. I collapse in the bench and sit there for ten minutes. WHY THE HELL AM I STILL IN HORRIFIC PAIN. That's what I would be screaming.
  
• Another ten minutes pass, and I'm alright again. Unlike the rest of the group, who all did ergos after my lot. They all ran out and threw up all over the school garden. Literally, there were like five teenagers vomming loudly over the garden. It was like the aftermath of a Bolemic All-You-Can-Eat competition. Watching them wryly, I eat some birthday cake and go to not one BUT TWO parties. I am such a party monster.

So, as you can see, the test of manhood is one that is not lacking in pain. There was a lot of pain involved. But I like to think that I have vindicated my position as the most manly man around. I rule. Unless any of you have a sub 7 2k ergo, you do not. You are just scum.

SCUM I SAY.

*I drew a really good cartoon to go here. Unfortunately, it made my computer freeze up, and I am typing this at 1.30 in the morning. Thus, I can't really be fucked to figure out how to get it to work. So just imagine an awesome cartoon here. --->
Wooow.*