Really, People? Just Stop It.

I had hoped to cover all the moronitude (it is so a word, and it is mine, all mine) in one post. Unfortunately y’all managed to come up with so much that a single post couldn’t contain all of my thoughts on what’s been happening the last couple of years, and (importantly) what is happening now. Case in point, the continuing mess which is the EU. Not that anyone really cares about the agreements any more if the verbal sparring going on is any indication.

It might be something which crops up every twenty years, but this antagonism seems to be rooted in a handful of people deciding what millions of people ought to be doing without, as a point of interest, actually asking those same people what they want. It makes no sense to have a body of people who can wreck businesses, destroy lives and complicate things just because they can. The taxes imposed on certain things aren’t the main objection I have, but it certainly isn’t helping endear them to me.

The mess made of the Greek economy, the influx of refugees everywhere, and the utter lack of compassion in some circles for people fleeing for their lives is frustrating to watch. The Conservatives are losing any credibility with their insistence that they can shred wasteful payments, and pointless aggressive overtones. I’m reminded of children throwing tantrums, which isn’t the image I want to have when talking about the current ruling party in the UK.

North of the border the SNP are just as reprehensible as they have always been, with Nicola Sturgeon apparently unaware of what the word “no” means. Maybe she should watch some of the ridiculously inappropriate adverts running on television at the moment – no means no. The thuggish shits in the SNP who want a “day of reckoning” couldn’t be more unappealing if they added anti-Semitic rhetoric to their repertoire. Oh, wait – they did that? Shit. Honestly, how did we get here? Is this the Mirror Universe or something? Bizarroworld?

And about the ad running right now… Does anyone want to explain to me how I am meant to respond when Zoe asks why people want to send naked pictures to each other? I have no problem with PSA’s running, but the very least I expect from broadcasters is checking WHEN they run, and what programs are on when they are running. I’m thinking that having access to television isn’t the best thing these days as everything makes me annoyed or saddened at the state of what is being shown.

So… That Happened?

The car you buy when you have given up on ever having sex again. And given up on life in general. Via Eco Car Blog.

While I was otherwise occupied, with things that don’t really relate to this post, a lot has gone on in my absence that doesn’t really make any sense. I’m gonna raise my hand right off the bat and admit that there is a lot which doesn’t make any sense to me anyway (the proliferation of stupid little cars being one – smart cars? Ugh, please…) but everyone should be really proud of themselves. While I was offline you guys raised the bar. The level of crazy really went off the scale, and coming to it after the fact makes it no less mad.

I’m still completely at a loss to comprehend the Sad Puppies, even though a fair few posts written over the last couple of years mentioned the fools those people. I’ve a few guesses at what’s making them sad, though to the best of my knowledge there’s no known cure for distemper. Also, nobody mentioned whether the puppies who were attempting to fix the Hugo Awards have themselves been fixed. Something to ponder, I suppose…

Then there is the mess which is being made of current politicians, policies and political parties, which probably deserves more words here, but I can’t bring myself to watch more than a few seconds of footage at a time. I honestly don’t know what the point of Nigel Farage is, other than to be a perfect character in some revived Spitting Image series, and there isn’t a single member of the SNP who doesn’t make my skin crawl. The US is, thankfully, much worse, so at least I can say “Guys, chill – we don’t have it so bad.”

I apologize to US readers, and suggest you start, y’know, calling out the racist, sexist, homophobic, isolationist bigots who are being ridiculous. Or take up rifle practice. Just sayin’. Any other time I would have found a perfect song to accompany that, but I’m really busy at the moment and Googling “Delaney Plaza comedy theme tune” is too much like hard work.

Despite not having the internet, I have been hearing some of the new songs being put out, and I can happily say that there isn’t anything ground-breaking there. Where is this generation’s Great Big Moment tunes? Hell, the sixties and seventies brought us a wealth of songs which continue, year in and year out, to be used in films, television and radio as great songs. It isn’t just nostalgia (though that is a part of their success), but the unity of lyrics, accompaniment and imagery. I’m saddened at the prospect of a disposable musical heritage being cultivated by people whose concept of “timeless” lasts just long enough until the next album gets squeezed out.

What little television I’ve seen has been punctuated by my feeling like I would rather read, or take a long walk, or anything other than being insulted by rehashed versions of things I never missed in the first place. The first show I saw – from the first episode – since getting back to a semi-stable situation was The Aliens, which isn’t exactly original. Actually, the word “original” shouldn’t even be used in the same paragraph as that show, so diluted is the plot. And the shell suits make me think of The Scousers. Harry Enfield is probably waiting on the call to make a guest appearance.

The biggest mystery to me is Gogglebox. People have talked about it as if television had a massive shift in ideology, and NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME AGAIN. I don’t get it. I mean… I watched an episode on the Channel 4 website, and I read some of the reviews people have written, but the idea makes no sense to be at all. Why do I want to watch a bunch of people I don’t know, who are watching television shows I don’t watch? The fact that such a series can get greenlit is probably a sign that nothing will ever be the same again… We have, as a people, given up on television as a medium. Thanks.

There are more ugly magazine covers than ever in the shops, with logos that are somehow worse with each passing iteration, and – presumably – revamped interiors which are just as aesthetically challenged. I can’t bring myself to look. Actually, I have glanced at some of the material on the shelves and I am glad to see the intellectually vapid “lads mags” have finally imploded in the critical mass of their own egos. Took long enough, mind you.

I completely missed everything that the BBC was going through, and I can’t say – with a straight face – that it was worth sticking through everything to watch. BBC3 is gone? Meh. Maybe if, y’know, the shows weren’t skewed so hard to the twentysomething market I may have raised an eyebrow, but it is no great loss. Letting go of Clarkson, however, is more of a quandary. I know he’s an asshole on the show, but it is largely a character he is playing. The new show seems to be making an effort to be as bland and unwatchable as possible, so it may not last the year. Here’s hoping…

Something else happened during my time away, and I’m not sure if it is completely pointless or only marginally stupid. In any event: Gotham. I know there are probably a thousand things that matter more in the world right now, but the very concept of a series which sets out the prehistory of Batman seems, to me, to be a colossal waste of time. The only thing I can foresee enjoying is the parallels the show will bring between Bruce Wayne and Wrath. As long as it doesn’t go all Watchmen and weird…

To be continued.

The Aristocrats

Here’s a warning – don’t read this on a full stomach. It’s vile, and horrible, and utterly irredeemable. But it’s not meant to be all that funny. If you aware of the joke, which has had enough press in recent years to make it somewhat less of an underground joke, then you will be aware that the sting – the last line – is all that need be humorous. It’s appeal lies in how far good taste can be pushed. For what its’ worth, I reckon I’m pushing enough boundaries with it as it stands.

As always, there are obscure references and some strange wordplay. Yes, I know. Bad habits… It’s an edited version of the routine I normally give when performing the joke – the three sequences clipped from the middle-section are truly horrific, so the word count has been sliced to a tad under 2k thanks to the omitted material.

I’ll make no further commentary, save for pointing out this: You have been warned.

The Aristocrats: A Modern Interpretation

by Gary James

The Agent

This guy, fat guy – really fat, as in rolls-of-flesh-hanging-from-every-part-of-his-body – walks into a talent agent’s office. He’s sweating like he’s just ran a marathon, and his face is purple from the three flights of stairs. The suit he’s wearing is the size of a tent, but even such a large suit is stretched to breaking point.

“Whaddya want?” The talent agent asks, not even looking up from his newspaper.
“You… huff… You innerested in a show?”
The agent, still not looking up, grunts. He does this. It’s a trick. It’s the equivalent of eating an apple while taking a novice driver out for a spin. It unnerves the hell out of most people, but the fat man just sits there. Sweat dripping off his face like a waterfall.
“This… This show… best fuckin’ thing ever.”
The talent agent has heard this all before. That’s why he’s in a shitty office on the outskirts of town, with walls plastered in the glories of others. No celebrities in his roster, that’s for sure.
“You gotta… You gotta believe me. This is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.”
So the agent looks up, and a flicker of recognition crosses his face. The morbidly obese man sitting across the table from him is – correction, was – old money. His family was the founder of one of the big hotels: Preston… Perkins… Porter… Potzrebie… Something beginning with P. The agent knew it began with P.
“You’re in this act?”
“Yes. I am… I am the grand finale.” The fat man shifts uncomfortably in the chair.
“I seen acts from all over, and without seeing your act I can tell you this – if you’re the grand finale, the act is a dud.”
“I’ll tell ya… Tell ya about the show. huff It all begins with a grand ol’ dame walking out ontah th’ stage. She sings the American national anthem as a flag is unfurled behind her…”

Laydeez A-hund Gentlemen…

The lights began dimming. The light were always dimmed when a star, however minor, took to the stage -part of tradition, but in this case crucial for the show. All the way down to three small wafer-thin beams circling around the spotlight. At ninety-seven years of age, the lady before the crowd had seen the glory days of the theater, and performed in award-winning plays of the ages. Here, in front of the American flag, as the final notes of the national anthem were replaced by Yez Mir Habn Keyn Bananez, she gives a bow and turns from the audience. The lights are steady on her as she bends over, and with a flick of her wrists flicks her dress up over her ass. Her joints pop and crackle as her ancient frame accommodates the movement required of her for this performance. One last tour-de-force. One last grand exit. Pulled from her retirement home, she is glad to be on the stage, though understandably nervous about the performance – Absurdist comedy? Fuck that. This is beyond anything the likes of Potter could have envisioned. Different thing entirely. A stifled burst of machine-gun laughter fires from the audience and ricochets around the auditorium. “Hearts and minds,” She tells herself. “Hearts and minds.”

Turns out the song wasn’t entirely correct, because there is a banana – the blackened stump of it is peeping out from her between her ass-cheeks. From seemingly nowhere, out of the darkness and the wings, bounds a chimpanzee. I’m willing to bet good money that Gus Golstein never intended this to be played out under his ditty. The chimpanzee, bouncing around like a kindergartner on crack, sees the banana in a heartbeat. Eyes blown like saucers, it rushes the old lady without thinking of anything but it’s stomach. The music builds, the chimp chanting something as it’s jaws snap at her naked, wrinkled, liver-spotted flesh. It sounds like “Hub-hoo, hub-hoo, hub-hoo,” but through its’ excitement there is difficulty making out what – if anything – it may really be saying. In a moment, the banana is gone. Devoured with relish, the skin is flung over one shoulder.

There’s a moment of confusion as the chimp searches for more food hidden in the hiding place, it’s fingers knuckle-deep in her repository – the spotlight scans the stage, the audience treated to mere flashes of the scene. Now the audience is getting nervous and excited, the unexpected acts of the animal confounding their determined belief in the stability of the performance. The trainer rushes onto the stage, agog… But too fast, and his foot finds the discarded banana skin. Toppling head over heels, he falls. The chimp, uncontrollable now, releases a stream of urine in a high arc over its’ head, covering the woman, the trainer, and a fair portion of the stage. The orchestra is trying desperately to keep in tune as splashes of the liquid falls perilously close. A shoe flung by the trainer narrowly misses the chimp, but before he can get to his feet, the man is pulled from the stage by a large wooden stick wielded from the side of the stage. It began with the pee.

Behind the chimp and the ancient woman, lurking in the shadows, a man sneaks on stage. His striped black and white top, topped with a mask, hunchback with a bag emblazoned SWAG… Clearly up to no good. The flag behind him falls, covering his escape for a moment, but struggling he frees himself. The bag flops to one side from under the flag, now reading TREASURY, closely followed by – emerging triumphant – Uncle Sam. He grins to the audience, unzips his fly and salutes – in both senses of the word. Cymbals clash, and a drum-roll indicates that the main event is merely warming up. The old lady gets to her knees and crawls to the side of the stage, trailing blood behind her. The chimp, busying himself with a bottle procured from some dark, hidden corner, bounds across the stage. Shaking the bottle violently, he raises his prize aloft, grinning a grin which would challenge the Cheshire fleabag for horrors.

And Uncle Sam is fully erect. One hand sliding up and down his shaft, the other remaining in mock salute. The chimp pulls the top from the bottle by force. “Do you want to sing a song for America?” Cries Uncle Sam, jaws clenching. Blood, cum and the vile fluid are spurting over the stage – a Guignol bukkake spread red, white and blue. There is a cry, and a whoop, and a cigarette flies through the air. An errant flick, maybe, or of deliberate aim – it hits the ground, bounces – once, twice, and it is at the blue liquid. The flames immediately rise, and clowns rush in with buckets held aloft. Over to the source of the flames, they’re circling each other, slipping and sliding in the mixture of liquids, falling and rising. One manages to stand long enough to throw the contents of his bucket over the flames – a ticker-tape display unrivaled in the memory of any stage hand.
That’s when the curtains begin to slowly close.

With a flash of light, the orchestra unleashes a thunderous racket, obscuring events behind the curtain. And, oh, what events… For this is a drama, and the players are positioning. The flag, so carefully unfurl’d at the top of the performance has been replaced with a giant smiley face. The lights fill in the center of the stage, revealing that Uncle Sam is busy giving head to the chimp – upon whose head has been placed a Nixon mask. It is slightly less disturbing than the retarded grin it had previously been displaying, but nonetheless too much for some of the audience. The orchestra is in full swing with a tribute to Gershwin, interrupted only by the grunts from the stage. The old lady is gone, her blood-trail leading off into the depths of darkness. And the chimp laughs… And he’s jerking around, and waving his arms… And Uncle Sam’s head is bobbing up and down as if he’s hunting for apples in a barrel.

With a snap of his jaws, Uncle Sam stands. Blood pouring down the front of his costume, the remains of the chimp’s cock dangling from his mouth. A scream. Deafening and bewildering emanations erupting forth from its’ throat, the chimp stands screaming, topples in mid-movement, then pulls at the place where its’ missing appendage ought to be. With a skip and a dance, Uncle Sam exits – stage left. An over-sized barbecue is rolled onto the stage by two assistants, the old woman’s body skewered into position above the open flame. The fat man is wheeled on by eight preteen girls dressed in what could only be described as Victoria’s Secret’s junior range – though secret is hardly a word to describe their bodies under the whispy fabrics. They’re straining to move the fat man’s bulk, the wheels of his carriage screeching underneath. The fat man is drooling at the sight of the corpse – his feast. Pieces of paper released by the clowns float aimlessly above her, the odd one catching too close to the heat and burning up.

The fat man, center-stage, begins licking his lips, and the girls move aside. Uncle Sam returns, twirling a carving knife as he tap-dances to the roast. The chimp is off, running God-knows-where, by the time the fat man has a knife and fork in his greasy, chubby hands. The little girls line up at the front of the stage, as the cutting and carving begins behind them. As if on cue, and in unison, they lean forward and vomit into the pit. Onto the orchestra, who screech and grind to a halt mid-tune. A rumbling fart releases from the fat man’s gut, as a finger slides into his mouth, then an ear, sliced and diced and cooked to perfection. As if by silent order, the girls release another wave of their pea-soup-like vomit, splashing over the musicians and into the first three rows of the audience. Chunks of God-knows-what bouncing off the instruments…

Uncle Sam is dancing around the bloated, flesh-eating monster now, naked from the waist down. In graceful movements, and to the sound of a kazoo being played offstage, he twirls and floats across the boards, coming to a full stop every few minutes to release a stream of diarrhea in an abstract expressionist splatter which could – if not for the smell – rival Jackson Pollock for ingenuity. And softly, between mouthfuls of human flesh, the fat man speaks – the pledge of allegiance uttered through a mouth full of bloodstained teeth. As the light flickers out, there is one final movement, Uncle Sam rushing front and center.
“God bless America,” he intones.

Sign On The Dotted Line

“What th’ fuck. This act… This… fucking-whatever-it-is… A carnival of horrors. What is it called? I mean… Do you even have a stage name?”
“Oh yes. We have a stage name.”
“So what do you yourselves?”

“We’re The United States Congress.”

Is It Time For Gordon Brown To Grow A Pair?

Paul and Rachel Chandler have now been held by Somali pirates since October, and there seems to be no aid forthcoming from the British government – is this really the reaction we should be getting from a political party supposedly courting votes for a forthcoming election? As if the threats of rape Rachel Chandler has received weren’t enough to buoy the Labour stuffed shirts into action, there is now a ticking clock on Mr. Chandler’s health… There is enough medical reason to intervene in the prolonged fiasco engineered by FO (the mandarins so incompetent that the government keeps them busy on foreign waters), with doctors stating that the kidnapped man’s eyesight will be permanently damaged in as little as a few weeks.

Is this the true face of the Labour Party? I can barely imagine voting for them in the looming madness which election fever will surely bring, but the cold and brutal way in which Brown has turned his back on British citizens whose lives are hanging on the line completely beggars belief. If they were soldiers captured by the Taliban there would be national outcry, military intervention and cynical, stage manipulated photo opportunities for the grinning one-eyed politico. Because the Chandlers are civilians, and are in a situation which affords the Prime minister no gains, they are treated as if they were lepers – at the moment. As soon as their deaths are announced Wee Gordy will be on the evening news, with his dour face on, wringing his hands and gnashing his teeth, he’ll spit out some words of condolence.

But before things get to that stage, and before the Foreign Office has a chance to cock things up to a greater extent than they already have, we should see something being done. Some action, however small, would show that there is a heart beating in Brown’s chest – a diseased, malformed heart, but a heart nevertheless.

Okay, another take on this – What if it had been a celebrity who was captured by pirates? Would there be a political urgency to get things resolved as quickly as possible? Of course there would. Perhaps not for Bono, or Gwyneth Paltrow, but I’m sure that the public would want certain famous people saved. If it was Stephen Fry being held captive, I’d climb in a rowboat and set off to rescue him myself… But Paul and Rachel Chandler haven’t lived in the spotlight, so the politicians who could arrange safe passage home under the protection of a special military detachment (if they deemed fit to do so), simply couldn’t care less. And this, you must remember, is during a period in which the responsibilities of the average citizen is being hammered home by our unenlightened overseers.

Can you spell ‘hypocrisy’ Mr Brown?

The Year Ain’t Over, So Stop Mourning It

There’s a lot of posts being written at the moment which seem to lament the passing of another year. Somehow I’m not feeling the motion towards a new year yet, though I’m sure there are people who have been planning their December blog posts for a while now. It is, after all, the final chance to comment on all of the news stories, to bitch about the way we’re all a year older, to state defiantly that next year will be better (c’mon – it can’t be worse, right?) and to place their spin on the current state of the world. That is all fine and well, but there are still some days to go before I have to retrain myself to write the correct year on stuff. I hate the time at the start of a new year when I always get the date wrong.

When people write up their summations of the past year, and the past decade, they will try to confuse you with stories about personal growth – the need to show off and explain how they’re somehow a better person is one of the (many) things which still eludes me. If I had a personal growth I’d be making an appointment for my doctor to immediately get it removed, but that’s just my opinion. If you like your growths where they are, then by all means show them to the world. I’m not gonna pretend that I’ve mellowed any. Hell, if anything I’m even more bitter and twisted than ever (I watched Transformers: Revenge Of The Fallen), still as impulsive… Maybe even less sociable than ever.

And why, now of all times, do people suddenly come over all sentimental – as if the year which has just kicked them in the ass never happened? I’m beginning to wonder if there is something I’m missing out on. Is it just me, alone here, mocking the frivolities of an arbitrary date we are held in thrall to? It isn’t as if there is a rule that we have to enjoy the “season of goodwill to all men” and be merry. Merry. Hmmm… Merrymerrymerry. After a while it isn’t even a word anymore, yet it is everywhere at the moment. It doesn’t really inspire goodwill in me rather than an uncontrollable urge to punch somebody. Anyone. The next person who says ‘Merry Christmas” perhaps.

One thing the last twelve months has taught me, in the particularly annoying way that only time can, was that I shouldn’t make plans. I really shouldn’t make plans. Three of my big ones were utterly ruined by unforseen events, so I can only surmise that there is some weird universal constant which determines that the making of plans is a Very Bad Thing. That sits just fine with me. I was planning on (maybe) sending out some Christmas cards this year, but haven’t. No biggie… The world hasn’t ended, there are no impending problems, and I doubt anyone will really notice.

I am, of course, going to use the fact that I’m not sending out cards as a way to appease the global warming nutters – never passing up an opportunity to make myself look good will remain a personal goal, though it hardly counts as a positive thing.

Oh, and if you, dear reader, happen to be one of those global warming nutters advocates, tell me this: Why am I freezing my balls off under a blanket of snow here in Scotland? If the planet is getting warmer, which I doubt, where have the sunny skies gone? I’ll concede that there isn’t as much of the white stuff (well, the other white stuff anyways) as there used to be, but it hardly constitutes proper scientific proof to the very, very debatable theory we’re screwing up the planet. Answer me, science bods.

2009 was the year we put war behind us and… Oh, wait. No, we’re still at war. How the hell are we still at war? Did anyone sign anything? I seem to remember some vague promises about decreased involvement in Iraq, but a promise from a politician is as good as supermarket credit- you’ll get screwed in the end, it’s only a question of how hard you want it. The endless reporting is one of the reasons I try not to watch BBC News 24 or Sky, because they seem to revel in the misery and human despair. With video footage. Lots of video footage. It’s a good thing nobody else seems to be watching, or they’ll wrangle a way to keep the war going longer for good ratings.

We didn’t disappear into a giant black hole when the Super-Collider was plugged in, which disappointed and overjoyed an equal amount of people. I guess that the naysayers had a point about dangerous experiments, but their massive knee jerk overreactions were a personal highlight of the last year – one particularly good commentary claimed it might open up a hell dimension and plunge us into the game Doom for real. Seriously. That shit is hilarious, and I am really disappointed that it didn’t pan out as expected – man, I really, really want a FBG. More than I want peace on earth. More than I want to find an agent.

2009, huh? Bit of a let-down. At least we managed to move some ways into the future, with bionic limbs being advanced, a robotic eye that seems to hold promise, advances in robotics, tweaks to the way the internet works… Soon (prob’ly not in my lifetime) we’ll actually have spaceflight on a regular basis. No, wait a sec – Richard Branson is getting all hot and bothered about a plane/spaceship thingy which might, possibly, precluding problems, actually deliver on that promise from the pages of The Eagle comic. We’re still waiting on proof that it won’t develop a problem on its’ inaugural flight, requiring Superman to bring it back to earth safely (okay, so that reference is asking a bit much of you).

I should mention Obama somewhere here, as that was a highlight – as was the redneck KKK fuckers who were caught with guns, then were stupid enough to admit they were going to kill the president. Jeez, Darwinism in action. I bet their parents are proud. Politics… I really don’t think anyone comes here for insights into politics, but I have to say this – 2009 was the year we discovered just how low, underhand, scumbaggy (is that a word?) and compromised some leaders were. Gordon Brown betrayed the UK every few days, The Italian government flip-flopped like a dying fish, the Chinese and Aussie governments tried to choke the life out of the internet… Bad year for politicians.

Oooh, lookee – I made some political commentary and managed to conveniently neglect mentioning how badly British politicians have been working the system to line their own pockets. Or how one of their number was caught with an illegal immigrant working on their staff. Or how we had reports of the stupid lengths some MP’s were willing to go to screw over their constituents.

Somehow it doesn’t seem like anything ever changes, no matter which year we are in.

The Australian Government’s Internet Plans Affect Us All

Despite the endless freedom of information campaigns spread across the internet, the Australian government is set to strangle the rights of web surfers come next year. The rationale behind the proposal is to weed out illegal content, but the supposition that an independent body can remain neutral is both idiotic and overly simplistic. The notion that a single illegal element can be successfully separated from perfectly legal material existing on the same server is beyond imagining – are entire domains going to be cut off from Australian access, and can sites launch an appeal if they have been wrongly labelled as containing illegal content? These are all valid questions.

And, while I’m thinking on the (many, many) problems which this brings up, are torrent sites going to be blocked? They aren’t, as any sufficiently intelligent people will be well aware, illegal in nature. They are often illegal in content, but they are still used by companies to get material out to customers and fans – in no way breaking any laws. Another thing that is bugging me – because this might affect me – is a tendency by governments to look to individual points of law. There are things on this blog which can be construed as illegal in several countries (libel, offensive insinuations, um… some pics), so will this entire blog disappear from the internet as far as Oz is concerned?

Even better – what will happen to web searches?

Wait. We’re not done yet. One more question. The big one. The question you’re going to be asking if you are living in Australia, and one which is key to the entire debate – the question that everything hinges on: Who is the wizard of Oz internet access? Who is the name which will be signed at the bottom of every blocking order? Who is the man (or woman) who will decide wether a website is permitted to operate in Australia? There is more on this story at Infowars. If you want to know what the Australian government doesn’t want people to know (you do, trust me, you really do) then go to the list here. Unfortunately, most Aussies won’t be able to get to the listed sites, but I’m happy to check them out for you guys. 😀

Oh, and in case there is any doubt a to the severity of this problem, the UK’s very own New Labour Reich have decided that it might be a good idea to follow suit. The horrors which await us are unimaginable – the people in power have no idea what they are talking about. Have you taken the opportunity to check what the assholes people in charge of the Australian government have to say about the ‘dangerous’ individuals who they are targeting with this bill? Their concerns that inappropriate material may be getting through the blocks already in place are one thing, but when people start talking about charges being brought against hackers…

Um… Riiiight. Y’know, it’s these kind of statements which will bring a lot of people over to the anti-censorship stance, simply because the use of the word is completely wrong. Damnit, I’m a fucking hacker you stupid politico. So is Bill Gates, and so is the guy who will implement your dumb censorship plans. Anyone who creates, modifies or tinkers in any way with code is a hacker. To be so blatantly ignorant is no reason to be so terrified of technology. It’s the statement of someone who watches way too many Hollywood movies and ignores real life. Can you tell, just with this post, how pissed off I am with the entire situation?

Don’t be surprised if this doesn’t show up on Australian browsers.

Demotivational Gallery

If you have no idea what this post is about, then take a look at A little friendly competition. For motivation. Gone and had a look? Then I’ll begin…

The political side of demotivational posters has always been overlooked in favor of the rude stuff, but there is a long tradition of politics creeping in to art when people aren’t really paying attention. The quote at the bottom of the second image may just be obscure enough to hide the sentiments, though I suspect folks will get the gist of the juxtaposition. If you need it explained to you, then you probably should start brushing up on your twentieth century history. The first image is an easy dig at the intellectual level of the then-current President, mingled with a meme popular at the beginning of the war in Iraq.

The following images are more typical of the demotivational style. There’s and Easter Egg (of sorts) if you look carefully at the Pokemon one.

I have a tendency to go for companies and politicians, apparently… I never noticed before, but a lot of the demotivational images which come readily to hand have this theme running through them. Which is probably a tad more self-awareness than I really needed to be made aware of. There are some I’ve come across which would definitely land me in some serious trouble, even though copies are probably still floating around in cyberspace it is better that I distance myself from anything which is too libelous.
There will probably be completely new images appearing in response to the “friendly” competition (is there such a thing?), so I’ve put together one specially for the occasion:

The Obligatory Image Post

Maybe I’m Missing The Point, But…

…I Don’t Understand The Appeal Of Celebrity Autographs

It’s something that bothers me when I browse e-Bay, and I’m not sure if it is an area that has mass appeal or is a niche, but the numerous signed photographs of celebrities has me thinking that I’m not up to speed with things. Why would anyone want the chicken-scrawl (rushed, so as to get rid of the person demanding their John Hancock) of a person who sensible individuals would cross the road to avoid.

Looking at the selection of signatures available on the internet has surprised me, with some names who I consider to be merely ‘infamous’ labelled as celebrities. Politicians are celebrities now? I know Tony Blair acted like one, but do we really need to inflate the egos of folks who already believe themselves to be above the law? And television presenters? A job which consists of reading from a screen doesn’t qualify someone as a celebrity.

The addition of sportsmen was nice, and it reminded me that not all premiership players are knuckle-dragging, dribbling, mentally deficient perverts, though the fair majority undoubtedly are just that. Some (okay, a handful) can actually write their name without the aid of a crayon. The autographs even look like they are spelled correctly, so I’m very impressed. Here I was thinking all footballers did was kick balls around and have sex with impressionable girls.

The prices being asked for these types of collectibles are astonishing. The idea that a person’s signature can be worth money is one I’m not completely unfamiliar with (I have a dozen or so signed books), but asking money for a bit of paper – or a photograph – with a signature on it is ridiculous. It isn’t like Wayne Rooney has ever accomplished anything with his life except bag a grandmother… Hardly an achievement.

While everyone else is begging for autographs, I normally do what comes naturally when ‘celebrities’ are around – I’ll pretend they don’t exist. That really pisses them off. And whenever a celebrity addresses you, it is worth remembering that they already consider themselves to be the center of the universe. Stupid celebrities will often say “Don’t you know who I am,” to which the only reasonable response is pretending you have no idea who they are.

Don’t pay for bits of worthless paper. Use the money to buy signed books by real authors… Celebrity autobiographies, as we should all know by now, are hardly ever written by the people on the front cover.

…The Obsession People Have With Celebrities Is Dumb

I don’t follow any actors, or singers, or… Whatever the Hilton bimbo does – it ain’t acting, ’cause I saw her film. I don’t read all of their interviews, or follow their Twitter feed, or check out their Facebook status, or any of the other multitude ways in which they pollute media with vacuous views and inane self-publicity in the vain hope that their lives will one day have some kind of meaning. They won’t.

Celebrities, as far a I can tell, are a side-effect of magazine and newspaper editors dumbing down their content in order to sell advertising space in their rags. They exist solely for their own benefit, and when they do try and give something back to society they normally misjudge things horribly. Anyone else remember a host of idiots celebrities appearing in a spoof appeal to save an elephant whose trunk got stuck up its’ ass?

And I, for one, have had quite enough of Bono trying to save the world.

The constant exposure which a handful of individuals receive has made the ‘career’ (ha!) of celebrity rather less impressive than it was half a century ago. The golden age of cinema was filled with more real celebrities than has existed in all the time since. Can you really compare someone like Rutger Hauer to Humphrey Bogart, or Piddly Diddly to Johnny Cash? It isn’t even a contest. Modern celebrities are useless.

The arrest (and continued detainment) of Polanski just proves how different times are. In the good old days the studio head would have bought off the powers of law enforcement, yet modern studios can’t even organize a half-decent cover-up. Whenever I see a ‘must-see film’ being advertised, normally big-budget and soulless works of inanity, I get a bit more cynical. There is going to come a time when I’m unable to look at a periodical altogether…

If anyone wants to defend celebrities, I’ll be waiting patiently with more ammunition for my argument… You can’t say I didn’t warn you.

The Message Vs. The Story

There’s something interesting about books which have agendas, and I’m never sure if I should be impressed or annoyed when I discover a deeper meaning in the work of an author. Ayn Rand is an obvious example, and L. Ron Hubbard is another (even if he isn’t as good a writer as Scientologists blindly believe)… I’m sure that most readers are familiar with those types of books which push a political or philosophical stance.

Is it right, though? Is it, when crafting a story, a requirement that some thought must go in to a work of fiction. I’m not sure if this is too close for me to call or not, because a lot of what I have written would be considered to contain an idea that “Chaos consumes all” and “Life is tough.” Those themes seem to come across when I sit back and armchair-analyze my own scribbles.

I owe a big debt to my reading material over the course of my childhood and teenage years for the crazier aspects of my work, and the numerous cult films I have devoured hungrily probably influenced more than a little of my world view. Trying to insert a message would be spotted right away (and everyone would call me on it immediately) so I’ve never deliberately added things which could be considered stances.

Ambiguity of politics, race and religious belief is a strength. If I don’t feel the need to promote being a certain kind of individual, then it isn’t going to come through in my work. Having said that, my writing is horrifically white… Which – being the lazy honky I am – flows easily and readily, irrespective of setting, character or era. I can’t help the fact that my characters come out a certain way.

Yet the race of my characters – and my own race – doesn’t, as far as I am concerned, bear much analysis. Same with politics, and I’m writing a lot of characters who have ideas that don’t fall into specific (and agreed-upon) political sets. I, and my creations, prefer to seek the intelligent answers to each political problem individually rather than follow the mainstream or counterculture blindly.

Religion is a tougher topic. One of my characters is very certainly a Christian (albeit a mass-murdering, psychotic and utterly irredeemable bastard), while another is shaping up to be some kind of Bhuddist-wise-man trope. I could never get over the initial stages of skepticism that is required where religion is concerned, but I’m trying (seriously, I am trying) to keep from pissing off the religiously minded.

Yet my non-beliefs aren’t playing a subliminal message in my work. I hope the agnosticism doesn’t come through too strongly, else it’ll handcuff my work, and I’m aware that there is a lot of religious folks out there…

And I come full circle to my original thought on messages-

They are interesting, and yet I have no idea why I find reading the books containing agendas so intriguing. Maybe it’s the fact that the authors believe strongly in their agendas, or because I can’t give myself into a single way of thinking so deeply that I feel the need to preach. It’s the other which exists beyond my grasp, and I’m perhaps slightly envious that some people know exactly where they fit into the universe.

Don’t get me wrong on this… I’m still annoyed when the last chapter is a monologue about how great everyone’s life would be if only they lived according to the author’s belief, or when the solution to a problem is a philosophical one, or when the MC turns out to be a political or religious figure in sheep’s clothing… The plot (and the story as a whole) should need no forced message if the message is so powerful, yet this type of story turns up a lot.

And this is where I’m stuck. This is the bit where I’m meant to come up with a clear-cut answer. This is where I’m meant to have some insight.

Nope. Not a single easy answer.

I’m not sure if I’m missing the message, agenda or whatthefuckever in my work, or if there is a dwindling pool of original ways to look at the universe, but I don’t think I need to push a world-view. It will come out in my work whether I want it to or not, as sure as the fact that most of my characters will be annoying crackers. They are a part of me, and I will influence them… And I am a bad influence.

Quick story (I promise):

I read C.S. Lewis when I was eight or nine years old, having found it in the library own my own. The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe. I didn’t know anything about the book, hadn’t heard of the story and couldn’t care less about the Christian roots of the book (which I had yet to discover). Got to hand it to Lewis… I LOVED that book. It rang a bell in my brain that didn’t stop ringing for weeks.

Why, you ask? The message is pretty blatant, and his writing is clunky in places…

It has a talking lion. A. Talking. Lion. And, if you doubt me just ask any kid, a talking lion is up there with aliens blasting ray-guns, white-hatted cowboys and knights on white horses. The fact that he can come back from the dead and kick ass just like Obi Wan made my love of that book last until I hit high school and discovered there was a book about a guy who did the same thing a couple of thousand years ago.

That revelation killed the book stone dead in my eyes. Never picked it up again.

Maybe the messages authors want to deliver, and the messages which readers take away, aren’t always so close as would be thought.