Friday, June 10, 2005

Man Slaves

Nothing annoys me more than seeing boys suck up to girls. NOTHING.

Strange but true; you could set fire to my hair, tear up my artwork, drop-kick my dog, screw my mother, tell me that Shaun of the Dead is rubbish, play loud classical music at me til the early hours of the morning, set fire to my hair, be Kilroy, wax my legs with gaffa tape, pour hot coffee on my penis, set fire to my hair, invent annyoing new corporate logos, repeat yourself, tell me that "More than a feeling" by Boston doesn't have the best damn air guitar moment ever, replace my carpet with barbed wire, used needles and lava, use scissors on my tongue, force feed me broken glass, self cut yourself, AND set fire to my hair, and I STILL wouldn't be as annoyed as I am when I see boys sucking up to girls. In fact, if you managed to do all of the above simultaneously, man, I'd be damn impressed.

But... argh. It... is... just... so... annoying. It seems that, as soon as girls are around, my entire fanbase (I don't call them friends, they're just people who cling to me, desperately trying to leech off my vital life energy and vitality) turns into a bunch of lame suckup wusses. In fact, I've invented a new name for this particular category of wuss: Man Slave. Actually, that's not entirely true. There's this hardcore section of Man Slaves that are wussy suck ups even when girls aren't around; they're wussy suck ups just in case the girl in question is hiding somewhere in the room. This means that they throw random comments about the no-tail in question into the air, capriciously compliment them obscenely and, occasionally, just say their names. You know, just in case they forget them them.

There is a difference between being chivalrous, and being an insult to mankind. It's a fine line, but an important one, and I think that it's a line that many of the menfolk in my class have yet to grasp.

For example, opening a door for your female chum is: Chivalrous.
Killing a dragon that's attempting to eat your ladyfriend: Chivalrous.
Saving your woman from Spanish pirates: Chivalrous, as long as she's asked you to.
Cycling for an hour to deliver a maths sheet to a girl that you've only been talking to on MSN for FIVE DAYS: Not chivalrous, creepy. Yes, Paul, I know all about that, and it does rival your Shakespeare quoting for creepy suckupitude.

I just remembered... didn't I do a post along these lines a few months ago? Oh yeah: http://chainsawzombie.blogspot.com/2005/01/why-is-everyone-such-suckup.html#comments. The title gives it all away, and if you want to go read it, you can fucking copy and paste it because I can't be arsed to look up the HTML code to do links. Read that, then add the information found in that to the information found in this, then this is a proper blog post. Sweet, man.

But come on. You don't need to follow these damn females around all day. They're not SUDDENLY going to sleep with someone else if you happen to not follow them slavishly to the park one day. For example: I was invited to Cassie's house today. Why didn't I go? Because I couldn't be arsed. And I know that Cassie isn't going to suddenly sleep with someone else. Well I also know that Cassie isn't suddenly going to sleep with me. She probably couldn't sleep with anyone else, even if she had the urge. BUT... this wasn't a good metaphor. BUT WHY WOULD YOU CYCLE FOR AN HOUR TO GIVE SOMEONE A MATHS SHEET? I can't think of any reason why someone would want to do that, except for the sole purpose of having sex with the girl in question. But why would anybody want to screw Lucia?


Hahaha... sorry babe.

WHY?

WHY IS EVERY MALE I KNOW SUCH A SUCK UP? WHY? WHY?

MANSLAVES.

If you don't know whether you're a man slave or not, here are some simple questions:

1: Do you bring up the female in question randomly in the conversation for no reason whatsoever, eg:
Me: How did you find the maths paper? I couldn't do question two.
Joe: Kris's name is Kris.

2: Do you text the female in question every six questions, often to ask them what lesson they're in and that the chair you are sitting on is quite hard?
3: Is your name/nickname Manny McSlave, Mr Slave, Manuel Slave, Slave-Man, Manslave.com, The ManSlavester, or *insert girlfriend's name*'s bitch?
4: Have you ever done something totally pointless for your girl that takes loads of time that results in every dumb female in the world saying 'aww, he's so sweet!' and every smart female in the world saying 'what a fucking dipshit'?
5: Ever had a screen name on msn that's blatantly complimentary of the girl in question, or, indeed, a display picture showing off the female's FACE?
6: Just to repeat some profanity, are you a total fucking dipshit?
7: Ever given the girl in question a present for no reason? When I say 'present', I do include 'maths sheet'.
8: Have you ever put in any more than the minimum amount of effort to see this girl? And when I say 'minimum effort', I mean 'lying in bed and hoping that they'll come to visit you'.
9: Have you made up a nickname for this girl for no reason, that they haven't pre-approved?
10: Seriously, are you a total fucking dipshit? I mean, honestly?

If your answer to any of the above is 'yes', then you are probably a man slave. Print off the following picture and nail-gun it to your forehead, facing inwards so you can see it wherever you go:



For every additional 'yes' response, add another nail. Just to make sure it's on securely.

And I think that I may have stumbled across the reason why I don't have a girlfriend.

Wednesday, June 8, 2005

A one, a two, a one two three four...

With toast and with croissants,
With soldiers and egg,
Crusty rolls, bagels, and breakfast in bed!
Lunches and lunchpacks from Devon to Dundee,
Oozing on crumpets and melted on peas,
Oh we all love Clover,
All over this land,
Oh we all love Clover,
All over this land!


Is is sad that I know the entire Clover advert theme music off pat? I mean, wow. That's a good thirty seconds of music, right there. And not only the words... I can also sing it flawlessly to the music. So thats words, rythmn, tune and timing, right off there, stored in this brain of mine.

How many brain cells do I have devoted to the Clover music? Quite a lot. I mean, that's a lot of complicated shit going on in my mind to dredge that song out of the dim recesses of my brain. And yet, why can't I remember what year the Yalta conference was? I think it's February 1945, but I'm not sure, and you can't write 'the four heads of state probably met in Yalta at about Feb. 1995 but I can't be sure so perhaps they didn't' in a GCSE exam. Although I did write that the chef in my English exam was fully UFIA qualified (now that is an ESOTERIC JOKE that possibly only people who regulary go onto fark.com or have urbandictionary stored in their brains will be able to figure out, which is why I stuck it in the exam; any examiner who has the urban coolz to know what it means won't be enough of a jerk to mark me down on it).

But, coming to think about it, I have so much pointless crap stored inside my brain. Like the lyrics to countless songs. Do you know that I can lip sync perfectly to Comfort Eagle by Cake? Bet you don't. And I can remember perfectly the guard layout of the Dam level of Goldeneye. There's a sniper rifle in the first guard tower. And... FUCK... if I forget the date of the Yom Kippur war (1973, ha ha, fuck you) because the brain cells dedicated to learning it were already used up with learning the internet adresses of all the good porn sites on the web, I am personally buying a ticket to Los Angeles and I'm gonna drive Sanchez over with his fucking bus. The Dirty One my ass. Not literally. Eugh.

My brain is the equivalent of a water treatment. Lots of stuff passes through, but only the useless crap stays. Like the nomnative, vocative, accusative, genative, dative AND ablative of annus, puer, bellum and mensa. Why do I know this? I don't even do Latin any more. Fucking Latin. You know why it's a dead language? Yes, that's right, because everyone HATED IT, and by the time they could speak it fluently, they were dead. It didn't become a dead language by being spoken lots by everyone, now, did it? No. Therefore, I just ruined Latin's shit.

And now I look at it, I'm not sure if those are the correct lyrics to the clover ad? Does bed really rhyme with egg? Because the last time I checked, they were totally different words. And... "Lunches and lunchpacks from Devon to Dundee", that doesn't sound correct either. Aren't lunches the same thing as lunchpacks? Crap, I can't remember what it is, I just sing it because that's what it sounds like to me. I have partially forgotten the Clover lyrics.

Do you know what this means? Well, there are two possibilities:

1: My brain cells, realising that the Clover music is, really, not gonna get me that far in life, have started to wipe themselves clean. So soon I'll have some brand shiny new brain cells to spend wisely on learning something useful, like how to perform CPR or why I should want to. Or the birthdays of everyone I know except me.
Alternatively, my brain cells, realising how wasted they are on the CLOVER LYRICS, have had a mass suicide pact.
I can just imagine it in Brain Cell HQ:

Cell 938371: Cell 58493! What the blooming hell are you doing?
Cell 58493: I'm ending it all, darling! I just realised... I'm programmed with the second line of the Clover advert lyrics!
Cell: 938731: Please, don't jump! We all feel this way sometimes... just step away from the pit of death.
Cell 58493: What do you mean, we all feel this way sometimes? You have How To Operate A Fire Extinguisher in there. What do I have? With Soldier And Egg. What the fuck is that? It's just four fucking words.
Cell 938371: Yes, but... uh... they're important words, kitten. I mean, With Soldier And Egg, man. That's deep. A cell could run his life by that.
Cell 58493: Really? You think so?
Cell 938371: Sure, muffin. Those are good words. Hell, at least you're not that guy whose job is to remember What Naked Fat Women Look Like.
*Motions to a very depressed looking cell in the corner of the room who twitches spasmotically every now and again*
Cell 58493: Want to swap?
Cell 938371: Hahaha, fuck no. You're the second verse of the fucking CLOVER advert. Oh, crap.
Cell 58493: AAAARGH!
*Jumps to his death*
Cell 83758474363363829: He just landed on cell 272637! They're both dead!
Me: What's the second line of the Clover advert? And, indeed, what is my second name? This isn't a good position to be in when being interrogated by a Portugese death squad.


Wow, my brain cells sure are dirty mouthed. And this leads me to the second possibility:

2: I have wasted however many brain cells learning the Clover music INCORRECTLY. That is possibly the most depressing thing ever. Please, if anybody finds those lyrics online, please post it on this blog. Just so I have closure on the amount of brain matter I have wasted.

And the most amusing thing? I've never eaten Clover. Never have. Never will. Don't want to.

Is is toast? It might be toasties.

Monday, June 6, 2005

The GCSE SAGA: THE FINAL PIECE OF PIE!

Previously in the saga
Attacked by evil Mister La Monsieur, our brave hero, Sir Me, seems to be fatally wounded... but can he escape in time?


The GCSE Saga: The final curtain!

Sir Me stood up, unharmed, and stabbed Mister La Monsieur in the head, killing him. He then rode off into the sunset in a Harley Davidson and married somebody fit.

The End


Yeah, I lost interest in these. Perhaps I'll bring Sir Me back to life when all other ideas dry up... yeah.