Very little of the below post makes much sense. Just accept it and move on with your lives.

The most retarded mascot in the entire world:

Quicky, the Nesquik Bunny



1: Just look at him. What a twat.

2: What kind of crappy name is Quicky? Seriously, who the fuck thought up the name for this thing? I bet whoever it was got paid a suitcase full of money for taking the second syllable of the product and adding a 'y'. Its like those guys who had to come up with a new name for the university in Exeter, got paid £20,000 and came up with "Exeter University" or "The University of Exeter". Except that's the sort of inspired lameness that I can look up to, even admire. Naming your mascot 'Quicky' is not.
A list of other possible names for this cunt:

• Nessie.


• Nesquikky.


• Choco-ricky-quicky.


• Bruce.


• Choco the Bunny.


• Efram the Retarded Rabbit.


• Arnold.

3: I just plain don't like Nestle. And not just because of the accent in the name that means that I can't type it on blogger for fear that it'll end up a big turd of HTML nonsense, but also because apparently they sold poison milk to schoolchildren. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for killing young children. I'm just against their infuriating attempts to re-ingratiate themselves with society.
Nestle, you got caught poisoning african babies, yeah? Yeah? Sure, it was a 'mistake'. I believe you, ok? Stop pretending it didn't happen with your 'Nestle and Africa' Schemes and your charity drives and all your corporate bullshit*. Accept the fact that you're a bunch of murdering cunts - stop trying to be the ex-paedophile at the materinity ward - SOME US STILL REMEMBER YOU AND YOUR CLOWN COSTUME. Don't try and hide your past. Accept it. Run with it. Make a feature of it. Be PROUD of your pro-profit anti-babies nature. Start genocidal programs. Have boxes covers showing Quicky napalming fleeing bushmen. "For ever box of Nesquik you buy, one of our highly trained mercenaries will be able to rape 14 women, ethnically cleanse 4 hamlets and play volleyball with the bodies of 54 murdered babies". It'd please me.** And you could even grind up the dead bodies and make Nesquik Extra (the added ingredient is PEOPLE)- but I think that I've gone too far already. To be honest I probably went too far about ten sentences ago, but then I was hit by my wave of imagination and I just couldn't stop the beat.

4: He's a rabbit. Woah, man, I'm getting a headrush from all the originality that's being THROWN around here. A BROWN rabbit, exactly the same colour as Co-Co Pops Monkey. Did that monkey have a name? Or is he too locked in his eternal battle with the dark forces of Krafty Krok to bother with such things as names? I'm not complaining, there's a certain refreshingness about a monkey with no name. Hey, at least Co-Co Monkey is cool. He has a dangerous edge. I can imagine Co-Co Monkey going rabid and killing a bunch of japanese tourists before being tranquilised and destroyed by park rangers. He has that dangerous side to him. But Quiky the rabbit? He's... a... sodding... RABBIT. God's evolutionary dead end. And not just any rabbit, A BIOLOGICALLY RETARDED RABBIT. He stands up straight. He wears clothes. He probably lives in a REALLY COOL PAD, in dowtown Cerealsville, with all his cereal-mascot friends (crappy ones, like the bee on Honey Nut Cheerios - none of the GOOD mascots like Quicky). He even has fingers. RABBITS DON'T HAVE FINGERS. THEY DON'T HAVE THUMBS EITHER. RABBITS DON'T WEAR CLOTHES. THEY LIVE UNDERGROUND AND EAT THEIR OWN POO.

5: The pitiful attempt to make Quicky*** 'urban' and 'cool', 'in touch with the youthful demographic' with his wearing of 'hip' yellow 'b-ball' clothes, 'wicked' baggy jeans and even the ultimate touch of wicked negro-related style- a BASEBALL CAP ON BACKWARDS. Yes, you heard me. That backwards baseball hat says it all. This is a rabbit who don't take no shit from no-one. With his hat backwards he'll really take any of you down a peg for messin' with his flooow.
This really pisses me off. Lame corporate raping of youthful subcultures, taking only the most superfluous aspects and then brutally exploiting them until it no longer becomes cool and in fact becomes embarassing. I bet if you asked Quiky what music he likes he'd say 'rock n roll'. AND THEN THEY'D PICTURE HIM WITH A GUITAR, JUST TO FUCK UP ANOTHER THING THAT HAD TO TAKE ITS SWEET TIME TO BE COOL. "I'm Quiky****, I listen to non-threatening girly rock like BUSTED or MCFLY or GREEN DAY!"
Man I'd like to play Quicky a bit of LINKIN PARK. The L-Pizzle boys would seriously BLOW HIS PUNY MIND. Some of the rockin' links those LP Boyz throw down... man, the lyrics of 'One Step Closer' made me rethink my life, put down the bottle of aspirin and get a job as a full time rocker. And it's not just being able to PLAY the music, Quikky. That means nothing. It's knowing WHY IT NEEDS TO BE PLAYED. That's what Linkin Park have got down: they know that we NEED them to just break the contraints of our meaninglessly corporate society, and so they play their delicious blend of nu-gritty-grindhouse-rock-with-occasional-ghetto-beats-from-the-main-man-Jay-Zee day in and day out. They rock night and day so we don't have to. And yet, here's some shitty little rabbit demeaning and crapping all over that. SHAME ON YOU, QUIKY. YOU SUCK.

There. Quikky, you have been well and truly PWNED!

Wow, I just wasted 45 minutes rinsing a cartoon bunny. Good job I don't have an English Literature essay on how Bram Stoker achieves tension in chapters 1-4 of Dracula to do, eh?

*Oh man, the corporations, man, they're EVERYWHERE, man. I'll be forced to listen to some Linkin Park just to get the stink of authoritarian conformism out of my skin pores. REBELLION FOREVER!
**Thinking about it, I'd probably not be, but it WOULD be refreshing to have a large company blowing up infants and generally being dastardly.
***That's actually painful to type. DAMN YOU NESQUIK.
****Quicky, Quiky, Quikky, I don't care. It's all just minorly different strains of the same bacterial colon-infection of a mascot.

Clutch, brake, accelerator, roadkill

I had my first driving lesson on Friday. Wow. What an experience. Now you know me, I'm not one to big myself up or overexaggerate my many good points. That's just not me, I'm more of the humble stock. Like Jesus. Yes, I guess you could say that I'm quite a lot like Jesus. Except without the whole 'nailed to a bit of wood like a fish' thing. That I can do without. That said... I'm so shiznitching good at driving. I totally rule the mofoing road, with my skillz at indicating and, like, not stalling. Yes, you heard me, an entire two hours long driving lesson COMPLETED without stalling the car ONCE. That's pretty good. I bet that most of the learner drivers can't even get INTO the car without crashing into a lamppost, knocking themselves out and ending up comatose in the middle of the road. But not me. I was cruisin' down that avenue in my nice yellow car, waving at passers by, carefully avoiding crashing into the kerb, being respectful to the other road users and generally being THE PIMP DADDY.

I mean, I was a little nervous when I saw the driving instructor for the first time. Not due to any weakness on my behalf, but the fact that the instructor was a WOMAN. A woman - like a man but with extra woe. So I was fully expecting a lesson full of checking my makeup in the mirror, driving about with the handbrake on, stopping every twenty minutes to ask directions, and random (sticky) outbursts of hormonal behaviour. Thankfully, this woman was fairly manly in her teaching approach, keeping her female ways to herself until I was out of the car, when she probably burst into tears for no reason whatsoever then knitted a baby-gro.

So after going through the 'give me the cheque' lesson, the cockpit check (making sure the door is shut properly, seat adjustment, mirror adjustments, locations of hidden missile firing unit and ejector seat, battering ram adjustment, seatbelt) the points systems of driving (normal pedestrians 10 pts, old people, children, dogs and prams 20 pts a piece, wheelchair users 50 pts, lamp-posts and kerbs -10 pts, immobile objects -40 pts, with additional points being given on a sliding scale of property to car damage scale), how to turn the wheel correctly (apparently there's a system, which I naturally mastered immediately), what the various pedals do, and how to get the best reception of driving music on the radio, we HIT THE ROAD.

I pulled away from the pavement FLAWLESSLY. No kidding, it was like me and that pavement were born to be apart. I indicated like a pro. Then I hit the gas and accelerated rapidly.

That was when the trouble began.

Zooming up the road at a blistering speed of about 8mph, I was chased down by some other woman in a car behind me who apparently was displeased at having to go so bloody slow. She was truly throwing off my concentratoin, so I tested out the the car's rear-mounted stinger missile launcher and blew apart her car, before skillfully switching gear into reverse and running over her badly burnt body with the spiked wheels of my YELLOW MG ROVER. Then a bunch of ninjas leapt at me from the pavement so I switched into 1st again and managed to cross a junction. The ninjas, following me, were all hit by various cars and fell into comas. At this point the police, sirens screaming, tore round the corner, firing madly at me. 'OMG OMG!" screamed the female instructor, crying into her hands. "Don't worry baby" I replied, and put on some manly driving sunglasses. I hit the pedals, going all the way into SECOND GEAR. Tearing down the street, with the police in full persuit, I suddenly saw my next obstacle: A SPEED BUMP. "Oh shiiiiiiiit" I said in slow motion, then cunningly shifted my feet off the accelerator just as I approached the bump to sail over it brilliantly. The policeman, not seeing my perfect driving, hit the bump and was thrown 60 feet into the air. I instantaneously hit the 'mortar' button on the dashboard and blew him into SMITHEREENS, then zoomed off at a face-melting 20mph, before pulling to a stop with a bit of a bump. Memo to self: work on braking.

The Instructress was highly impressed at my skillz* and told me that I'd pass my driving lesson first time and that I would soon be The Best Driver In The World Ever. I'm not exaggerating, that's what she said. I was like 'Well, all four of my grandparents were spies for the government who spent their early years as Hollywood stunt drivers' and she was like 'Well that explains it... you're my hero' and I was like 'Wel thanks baby-pie, you're not the first person to say that' then she fainted in her female way, so I was forced to drive all the way home, occasionally having high speed races with truck drivers who objected to me repeatedly ramming them for being in my way.

Man I can't wait until I pass my driving lesson. There'll be so much stuff I can DO. Here's just a small selection of possible activities:

• Get to places that woulda taken ages to walk really quickly. Try as I might, I can't get that sentence to sound right. Oh well.


• Park badly to annoy people in wheelchairs.


• Drive about with the roof down, playing Simon and Garfunkel to the masses from my massive 8980GHZ-bass subwoofers welded to the boot.


• Lose my girlfriend in a tragic drag-racing competition. Then drive all the way up to Heaven to drag race-Jesus to get her back.


• Follow joggers along the street, honking my horn and yelling 'Run faster you brigand!' or 'Come on, I want to FEEL THE PAIN!'


• Pull into the drive thru** at McDonalds, and then when they ask me what I want to eat, make them tell me the whole menu, then ask if they have any nice stew, and then say 'no thanks I'll just make some guacamole at home' then DRIVE OFF CACKLING MADLY.


• Drive around tooting my horn at attractive postboxes.


• Pimp my ride by adding, like, pictures of Ant-Man to the side or, like, 'VOTE PEDRO' as the license plate. OOOH, or REALLY BIG WHEELS. WITH SMILEY FACE HUBS. That'd be sweeeeeeeeeeeet.


• Make a nuisance of myself.


• Never walk again.


• Buy a novelty horn that plays the solo from 'Sweet Child Of Mine".


• Perform drive-bys against rival gang-leaders... I'll fill their pesky bodies with lead for messing with my jazz. That'll show em.


• Buy some driving gloves and a nice leather hat.


• Grow a driving mustache.


• Perform drive-buys against rival gang leaders... I'll drive past and buy things off them, then pay in CHANGE.


• Burn my bicycle.


• Turn up the parties in my car, then roll down the window and say "Hey, ladies, check out my steez pimpmobile" to whoever happens to be outside the house.


• Offer people lifts home from parties then drive off at 12.20 without them, leaving them stranded in some godawful shithole in the middle of Egham with no real way of getting home, meaning that they're forced to phone their parents and
  wait on the freezing street corner for 20 fucking minutes... except that would be a really shitty thing to do, wouldn't it OLIVER? Sod.

Of course, in order to pull off all these objectives, I'll need a really pimpin' ride. I don't think that a Ford MG Rover really cuts the mustard, to be honest. I've drawn up a rough blueprint of what I'll be expecting. Now, be aware, this is only a rough picture, but I think that it gets the message across quite well:



Look at that, man, that's just so FIIIIIIIIINE. Even the dog is impressed. Of course, the horse would have lots of hidden features, like a sprinkler system and, uh, the ability to fly. And seatbelts. No point in compromising on the safety.

VROOOOOOM!

*I wonder if I've ever actually typed skillz without the z on the end. This might become a permanent feature of my english usage, like my sarcastic american pronounciation of 'tomato' has actually become my natural way of saying it. Damn you, George Bush. You hate pronounciation. And black people. Big up Kanye West.
**Through. THROUGH. HOW HARD IS IT?

BEHOLD! The consequences of rowing...

Seriously, hands shouldn't look like that. See that black stuff on my thumb*? That's not dirt. That's rubber that's like been burned on there by the shitty low-quality oars I was left using today. RUBBER. They look like the floor of a fucking tyre show. A tyre show that took place in a building with central-heating to just below the melting point of rubber. A building that had sandpaper instead of carpet YOU GET WHAT I MEAN? RUBBERY. Euck. And it's really burnt in there... all my rigorous self-cleansing regimes did NOTHING to shift it.

So far this week I've had a grand total of TEN BLISTERS.
TEN. THATS LIKE THE NUMBER OF CROSSES THAT JESUS WAS STAPLED TO, BUT WITH NINE EXTRA.

NINE. THATS LIKE THE NUMBER OF SKYSCRAPERS THAT FELL OVER ON 9/11**... but FOUR TIMES THE NUMBER. THEN WITH ONE EXTRA.

ONE. THATS LIKE THE NUMBER OF GONADS IN LANCE ARMSTRONG.*** The sheer amounts of pus that have leaked out of my body... it's truly umpleasant. Then I bite off the spare bit of skin and eat it. Mmm. Don't you just want to punch me in the mouth with a piece of concrete?

And you know what? I can't even quit rowing now. The boatie coach randomly went up to me today and said "Well I'm impressed with your ergo times and I think that if you work hard you might get a place in the first 8 next year."

Omg. Omg. OMG. OH MY GOD. DID YOU HEAR WHAT HE SAID? THE FIRST EIGHT. THE FIRST FUCKING EIGHT. This is like the most important moment of my life... shit, man. Thanks. That's really something to look forward to. The 1st 8... that really would be a prestigious achievement. I mean, just imagine me in the 1st 8. Wowzers. I can't imagine a higher honour. Even being elected King Of The Entire Planet... shit, compared to getting into the 1st 8 and getting a natty white hoodie. The 1st 8... I'm truly not worthy. But yes, I'll work my damndest until next year so that I TOO can be a possible member of the FIRST 8. YES MAN. YOU HEARD ME. THE FIRST EIGHT. WOAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

[/irony off]

So that means that He Has An Eye On Me. So I can't just randomly quit when it loses its fun value. I'M TRAPPED. YET AGAIN, I'M TRAPPED. CUNTS. To be honest, I was never going to quit rowing anyway. If I was to quit it, I'd have nothing to whinge about. I'd get fat and sweaty in like a week and a half. And I WOULD PROBABLY MISS THE DAMN SPORT. THAT'S WHATS UNFAIR. I HATE IT, YET I KNOW THAT I WOULD BE REALLY SAD IF I LEFT IT. KIND OF LIKE ME AND LINKIN PARK. IF LINKIN PARK EVER LEFT MY LIFE, MAN, I'D BE CRYING MY EYES OUT LIKE THE GOTH-PUNK-ROCK-METAL-EMO-KING-OF-ROCKYROLL I AM. But seriously, it was just nice to imagine an easy life... a life in which I could go home when the school governors decided it was prudent to... a life when I could sleep in on Saturdays and drink copious amounts of alkeyhol on Fridays... actually screw it I'm gonna drink anyway, I don't care what the coaches say... a life when I didn't have to wear tight lycra that gives me really odd tan-lines... a life when I didn't have to listen to DJ FUCKING SAMI EVERY TEN MINUTES. I really hate rave music.

Mm, lycra.

I think the 'I'm gonna quit at the end of this week' mentality was more of a placebo. Yes, I just said placebo. Like a drunkard saying "I can stop this boozing time I want"... or a smoker saying "FINE THEN I'LL QUIT AND SAVE YOUR PRECIOUS LITTLE 5 YEAR OLD LUNGS". Or an Oli G (manliest man... I don't think that I reiterate this point enough) saying "ok, I'll only sleep with HALF of this class of sexually promiscuous 16 year olds". Or Ogg saying "Ok guys, two more weeks then I'll tell her that I'm only going out with her for a bet". I'M NEVER GOING TO QUIT ROWING BUT I'M ALWAYS GOING TO WANT TO.

DAMN YOU, ROWING. DAMN YOU TO HELL.

*Yes, this IS a scan of my hand. So for all you internet perverts out there, this at least proves that I am a white-boy, floury, cracker, wigro, pop n fresh, slavedriving, Colonel Sanders, white-bread, wifro, milk-skinned, sausagemeat, albino, Santa's Beard, lily-lad, orgen, cookie-dough, white-choclolate, pretty-fly-for-a-white-guy, chickenliver, icy-fresh snow-boy, angelic KKK honkey little motherfucker. So that's nice, homies.
**Technically, it should be 11/9. 9/11... what kind of retarded way of writing dates is that? What happened on the 9th of December that year? Anything good? Morons. With time-keeping skills like that, it's no wonder your buildings kept falling over.
***Gonads gonads gonads gonads gonads GONADS.