Monday, September 13th, 2010
Are you not bored yet? ‘Cause I’m sure bored of receiving your endless stream of shite on a daily basis. How much of your day are you putting into expanding your spam business? Is there any time left over for hobbies, eating, breathing? You seem to have quite a packed schedule of attempting to get nonsensical, completely useless information out to the masses.
Credit where credit’s due though, you have gone to great lengths to vary your spamming techniques. The spam comments you leave on my blog, for example, are rather genius. You leave me comments saying things like ‘awesome blog man! Gonna bookmark it.’ And I almost pay attention until I see that your website is something about free external harddrives or other such bollocks. You crafty bastards, I have to hand it to you. Thankfully though, I have a pretty kick ass spam filter so anything you have to say gets relegated there. I hope it feels like you’re being cockblocked by a good friend whenever that happens.
I’m surprised that you’re still sticking with the good ol’ email spam though. That all seems a lil passe now, non? I mean, what’s the return rate on those emails you’re sending from Nigeria about a family we’ve never heard of dying in a plane crash and leaving me, a complete stranger, a gazillion pounds sterling? Seriously, I’d like some stats on that so that I can tally it against my own informal research which concluded that roughly 96% of all people are complete douchenozzles.
And for the last time, no, I really don’t need my penis enlarged. That, of course, is primarily because I’m not a man so I don’t in fact have a penis. While at times, some of my blog commenters have accused me of looking like a tranny, that would also be inaccurate. I have also been described as a gay man in a woman’s body, which is actually pretty spot on because I love the mens and I love ze shoes – see? Anyhoo, we’re getting off point here. Stop sending me stuff about schlongs.
Then of course there’s your Twitter spam. I’d like to thank you for easy off on that crazy Britney Spears sex vids spam you were hawking on there pretty hardcore last year. I could barely go a few minutes without a pics of Brit Brit fellating a giant penis popping up on my screen. It was very disturbing. But still, you keep on with other little tweet spam projects that I have no appreciation for. I can’t imagine anyone has an appreciation for them actually, so perhaps it’s time you put your energies into something else like, oooh I don’t know, a real job? In fact, I don’t really care what you do, as long as it doesn’t involve me, my inbox, my various social media profiles, my blog or really any aspect of my life.
Wednesday, July 28th, 2010
If you have young kids, come sit next to me for a second, we need to have a chat. So, congrats on having some offspring, that’s great. Continuation of the human race and all that. Fantastic times. But can I just break something to you that no one else has the balls to tell you? Your kid ain’t that great.
I’m sorry to burst your bubble, it’s just a fact. I mean, I know that your child’s every breath leaves you in awe and wonderment, but to the rest of us, it’s just some pretty regular shit. And I know that your little bundle of joy has turned your life upside down and everything now takes on a new meaning, but to the rest of us, life just goes on. So, if you could stop it with all the constant updates about how Junior opened his eyes today, or took his first step or giggled, it’d be much appreciated.
And you should really think twice before posting that Facebook status update about how little Tommy went potty all by himself today. I’m telling you this for your own good – absolutely no one but you cares about your child’s bowel movements. Oh and stop using your kids pic as your profile picture while you’re at it – lame.
I know this all sounds pretty harsh, but I can assure you, all childless people (and some other parents too) have had these thoughts at one time or another, as you regale every dinner party with stories of your child’s ‘wonderful achievements’. The reality is, what your boasting about is what every kid does. Every kid crawls, walks, burps, farts, laughs, learns to read blah blah blah. Please stop boring us! Unless your child is a bone fide genius, he’s really not doing anything new or special.
Mothers, I get that you gave birth – kudos, ’cause that bit sure does deserve some props – but you don’t now out-rank me as a woman because you carried something in your womb. So, enough with the eye rolling if I don’t let you jump ahead of me in a queue just because you have a kid. In fact, if you have a kid, I’m gonna assume you have a significant other who can help you with your chores. Me? I’m single – I’m doing all this grocery shopping by myself and I have to carry my own bags! Give me a break over here!
Here’s another thing you should probably hear – while you think your baby is the most beautiful thing in the world, everyone else is fully aware that all babies look pretty much the same and are sometimes quite ugly. It’s OK, they grow into their looks, but when they’re a few days old, it’s not really like I can step in there with a ‘oh my! Little Sarah has fabulous bone structure.’ The constant pressure to say that everyone’s child is the most beautiful thing on earth is kinda awkward.
I’m fully aware that if I have children, this whole thing will go out the window as I bore everyone around me to tears with tales of how wonderful/perfect/gorgeous/clever they are. It’s the nature of the beast. This also doesn’t really apply to my friends who have kids because their kids are legitimately, better looking than yours and most impressive in all their pursuits.
So in conclusion, we get it – you’re proud. Roger that. 10-4. We don’t need the 50 Facebook updates a day and constant pictures to hammer that point home. It’s a given. You’d be pretty soulless if you didn’t think your own flesh and blood was the shiznit – I’m just saying, don’t always expect everyone to be on the bandwagon.
Cosmopolitan has launched its Blog Awards and I would be so grateful and honoured if you would take a moment to nominate Bangs and a Bun in the ‘Lifestyle’ category. It only takes a second and I will love you long time if you do. Click here and make my day. Thank you!
Thursday, January 14th, 2010
We have become a society of motivational quote-spouting, buck up, pat on the back, grass is always greener idiots. I blame Oprah. Whether it’s people in need of a comforting word or someone trying to motivate themselves and others, there’s a useless cliche on hand for every event.
It’s always worse at the beginning of the year, of course. I lost track of the number of motivational ’2010 is my year!’ ‘Success is a journey, not a destination!’ Facebook status updates I’ve seen over the past couple of weeks. What bugs me is that these were the same people who said 2009 was their year and I’m pretty sure the majority have done crap all with their lives in the last twelve months.
If you start a year with aspirations of changing jobs, working out, learning to drive, world domination, meeting Obama and going on a mission to Mars, yet all you managed to achieve was getting dressed before noon every day and smoking more weed than Cheech and Chong, no amount of motivational quote spouting is gonna fool anyone.
Of course, many people use these ridiculous quotes to motivate themselves, make it appear as if they’re in a superior, balanced ying/yang mindstate, or they’re doing much better in life than you would think. My personal favourite is wanna be rappers saying ‘I love all my haters, you keep me motivated!’ Bitch please! Who’s hating on you? No one even knows who you are. Get a day job and shut up.
It doesn’t matter what you’re going through; emotional upset, friendship drama, bereavement, just got laid off, relationship woes – there’s always some douchenozzle on hand to recite some motivational cliche they read in a Tony Robbins book.
There are self help books and how-to guides up the wazoo to aid you with every kind of problem imaginable. From The Secret to Oprah, Dr Phil and every two bit advice columnist, we’re all encouraged to look on the bright side, positivity is key, good vibes, peace and love. The thing is, none of these motivational quotes actually provide any practical solutions. They’re just words, supposedly of wisdom, which are meant to magically switch our frame of mind to make us want to do better. And sure, everyone could use a good kick up the ass from time to time, but at least come up with something original.
Personally, I’d rather just get on with things than blast my intentions via airy fairy quotes on my Facebook status all day. Here’s a bit of motivation for you from Douchus Maximus Sean ‘P Diddy’ Combs, when it comes to getting stuff done: ‘Don’t talk about it, be about it.’
Bravo Mr Diddy. I couldn’t agree more.
Wednesday, November 25th, 2009
Well, season’s greetings bitches!
There’s no point in being in denial about it. Christmas is in your face harder than Scarface’s coke shipment. Deal with it.
It doesn’t even ease in now. As soon as November hits, the Christmas commercials start. It’s always the furniture stores that roll out their TV ads first. A yuletide jingle playing in the background as they talk about 0% finance on a three seater sofa that you would rather ram up the sales guy’s ass. What kind of present is a three piece furniture set anyway? It’s not like I can wrap it. File it under stupid gift ideas.
As I’m tucking in to my breakfast the other morning, chatting to my parents, all of a sudden I tell everyone to shut up as I zone in on what’s being played on the radio. ‘Is that motherbitchin’ Silent Night?’ I ask. ‘It’s a hymn!’ says my mother. ‘Listen, Sister Mary Francis,’ I say. ‘I don’t care for that distinction.’ Christmas music, which is the most evil of all musical forms, hymnal or otherwise, should not be allowed before December 1st.
At least in the States they have Thanksgiving in November to ward off the influx of all things Christmassy too soon. Here, soon as the kids are done trick or treating, they roll out the fairy lights and santa costumes.
Then cue the ‘how not to put on too much weight over Christmas’ articles and the TV morning show debates about how the meaning of Christmas has been lost. And don’t forget every Tom, Dick and Harry telling you to make a hamper or something for the homeless.
Last year, I got on this kick that I was going to make presents. I spent a year making my parents this:
and frankly, I think I peaked too soon. How am I ever meant to top that? Also, considering the big day is a few weeks away and I haven’t even sewed up a hole in my socks, it’s unlikely that they’ll be getting some hand made gift of wonder from me. So that means now I have to shop. When am I meant to fit that in? Between work and blogging and…you know, work and…blogging – there’s just no time.
As you can tell, I am full of the joys of Christmas. The thing is, I genuinely do love this time of year. And that’s because I love my family and the traditions we have. *cue soppy music* But if we could just put a cease and desist on the shenanigans until December 1st, that would really work out better for me.
Wednesday, November 11th, 2009
I have a few phobias. I’ve got the bog standard fear of spiders, but I also have some odd ones, including my now infamous fear of oranges. Recently, I’ve developed a weird intolerance to music that is driving me nuts.
I’ve always had an slight issue with noise. Specifically, things like children’s toys that play a song over and over. I can’t stand it. It’s rare that I find myself in the presence of highly irritating kid’s playthings, but if I do, I will dive across the room looking for the ‘off’ switch and if that fails, I will throw the damn thing out the window.
But recently, this has extended to music of any sort. And this is annoying, because I love music! I’m not sure how or why this has come about, but I can barely listen to anything without it driving me nuts. Part of this is because I have a thing about repetition and when I really listen, I become hyper aware that music is essentially the same four or so chords repeated throughout a song.
The other night, I was having dinner with the fam with some Bob Marley playing in the background. We were having a great conversation, but all I could hear was the music. Literally, everything else around me tuned out and all I could focus on was this repetitive bassline piercing through my soul – and not in a good way! I became very anxious and eventually had to ask for the music to be turned off – this almost got me banished from my family. I had to beg and plead: ‘No, no! I love Bob Marley! I just have this weird thing about music right now. I can’t listen to it! I’m sorry!’
A few weeks ago, my mother and I went to see Breakfast at Tiffany’s at an old movie theatre near us. It’s one of my favourite movies. I haven’t watched it for a while. Just as I was getting into watching Miss Hepburn do her thing, all I could focus on was how many times Moon River played through the movie. It’s everywhere. It’s actually pretty much the only song in the movie, just with a slightly different arrangement for different occasions. Again, I got anxious, my heart was beating super fast. I thought I would have to leave the cinema. It’s ridiculous!
And I know it’s ridiculous, yet I don’t know how to stop it or why it even started. It has eased off a little bit over the last couple of weeks. It was at its worst when I first moved back here from Canada, so I attributed it to the stress of the move. And it’s just going to get worse in the run up to Christmas, because Christmas music sucks the biggest donkey balls of all.
Well, now you all know I’m nuts. Share something nutty about yourself in the comments, just so I don’t feel like such a crazy freak. Please?
Tuesday, October 20th, 2009
I hate clubbing.
Each one is the same as the last and they’re all shit boxes.
Here is your guide to every club you’ve ever been to:
They’re there to piss you off before your night’s even started. They make out as if, behind the rope is a world of magical delights. You ain’t fooling me homeslice. What lies behind that rope is a bunch of drunkards, a sticky floor, several arrogant bartenders and a DJ who wouldn’t know good music if Michael Jackson himself arose from the dead and bitch slapped him seven ways to next Tuesday. The number one thing bouncers like to do is have 50 people waiting in line outside to give the impression the club is busy. When you get in there’s just a disco ball and one chick who’s clearly high as a kite, working out on the dance floor.
The Cover Charge
VIP anything can kiss my ass. So can guest lists. I hate the whole concept of exclusivity in clubbing. Once you’re in there, everyone is sweating in the same sweat box. You’re not above anyone else. Dismount from the high horse please. I’m a regular person and would much rather club with the rest of my plebs than to be with a bunch of hoity toity douchenozzles in the ‘VIP section’. And unless there’s some sort of shirtless Greek Adonis in there doling out sexual favours, aint nothing VIP about it.
The Dance Floor
If you manage to make it through the night without fantasizing about becoming Bruce Lee and kicking every last person’s ass, I commend you. There is some serious space violation going in clubs across the world and you better believe I will back it up until you back it down. I will thrown down a dance off of Rock Steady Crew in Beat Street proportions to make sure I maintain my space. Plus the dance floor is always sticky and has broken glass or toilet paper on there – it’s like an assault course.
Apart from the 10 guys you’ll meet in a club, it’s always a variation of the same people. Guaranteed there’ll be the super drunk crying girls. They’re either crying over a bitch fight with their friend or because some random dude they don’t even know rejected them. Either way, it’s highly embarrassing/amusing to watch. Then there’s the guys who want to fight (‘What? Fuck ME? No, fuck YOU! You wanna take this outside?’). There’s the people who don’t dance and the people who can’t dance but will injure themselves trying.
I’d rather inject myself with swine flu than use a club bathroom. Why do the floors always look like a drained swimming pool? How can that much water be on the floor and where is it coming from? Anyone who goes in leaves with toilet paper stuck to their shoe. More and more clubs are trying to introduce bathroom attendants now. So let me get this straight: you want me to pay you for me washing my own hands and you handing me a paper towel? Guess again amigo. And then you’ll give me a lollipop? What am I at the dentist? And why on earth would you think I’d want to suck on anything that’s been in a bathroom? No dice!
See? They’re all the same. I’m a better DJ than half these fools out here anyway. I’m gonna put a disco ball in my living room and throw bad ass parties. You’re all invited! You wanna be on the guest list?
Tuesday, September 1st, 2009