You fucking lazy, moronic, pathetic, inbred cunts.
I know it's not exactly cutting edge comedy to point out how shit McDonald's staff are, but this lot really do deserve a mention for their services to fuckwittery.
I know that working in McDs is a pretty shit job - hard graft for crap money - but I am a firm believer that how you do the shit jobs is a great reflection on what you are like as a person and a professional, and an indication of how you will fare in any walk of life. Based on this philosophy, the current incumbents of the branch of McDonalds located in Asda, Bournemouth are destined for a good 40-odd year career of dribbling on their own piss-sodden genitals while picking peanuts out of their poo. You surly, stupid burger-flipping cunts.
I don't expect silver service. I don't even expect reasonable food. I expect shitty McDonalds, but when you've got up early and you've got a coach to catch, you sometimes have to undergo the kind of misery that only a McDonald's breakfast can force you to endure. SO IT WOULD BE NICE TO BE FUCKING ACKNOWLEDGED WHEN I APPROACH THE COUNTER. AT SOME POINT IN THE FIRST TEN FUCKING MINUTES. You fucking fucks.
Standing there with a slack-jawed thousand-yard stare while shuffling around gathering the various components of a McDonald's breakfast, they failed to smile, say hello, or generally display any kind of interest or enthusiasm for their customers. Now I hate all that fake 'have a nice day' crap as much as anyone else, but I'm talking the basics of human interaction here. Failure to make eye contact, communicating in monosyllabic grunts (literally, I'm not exaggerating this for effect) and just generaly doing the shittest job possible is a fine indication that you dumb motherfuckers have found your true calling, and can look forward to a lifetime of being shit at doing shit jobs.
Friday was a very special day. Friday saw the team leader working there - that's right, standing shoulder to shoulder with his workforce, showing them how it's done, working right at the front line of customer service. Or, as it happens, demonstrating an ability to drool on his own shirt coupled with an ability to forward plan bettered only by the bloke who thought that two rubber dinghies and a set of waterwings would suffice as lifesaving equipment aboard the Titanic.
This bloke was biblical. If you put a committee together and charged them with inventing the perfect moron, they'd come back with this man. Actually wandered round with his mouth open the whole time (SUCH a good look) and cooked every meal TO FUCKING ORDER. ITS A FAST FOOD RESTAURANT YOU CUNT. Queues formed. Oddly, of people who wanted to buy McDonald's most popular breakfast meals. It wasn't hard to figure out. Even better, he didn't take the next order until the first order had been fulfilled - whereupon he would often find the person wanted some, or all, of the same things as the first person. Having dispatched poor Olaf to cook in the kitchen (who wandered off with his knuckles scraping the floor; I'm sure that's unhygenic) our hero then stared into space and waited till the meal turned up before taking the next order.
He'd be great in a proper restaurant. 'Oh, sorry sir, I can't take your order until the other 26 tables have had their meals cooked. In order. I'll swing past your table again on Tuesday.'
What a shame you can't supersize their fucking IQ.
Monday 30 July 2007
Wednesday 25 July 2007
My ringtone/iPod combo
No-one to blame for this fiasco but myself really. We take the piss out of a female friend for sounding a bit like Orville when she gets over-excited so, pissed up the other night, we recorded 'I wish I could Fly' off the internet. A couple of days ago I set it as my ringtone. I'm fucking hilarious me.
EXCEPT I'M NOT
I was wandering around Asda this evening doing some shopping with my iPod playing. I became aware of a vibrating in my coat and after a good 20-30 seconds of scrabbling around, I located the source of the problem - my phone was ringing. Removing the iPod headphones, I realised it was on top volume, and a good two thirds of the way through 'I wish I could fly' by Keith Harris and Orville. Every shopper within earshot was looking at me like I was a complete and utter twat. I thought it was on vibrate only :-(
EXCEPT I'M NOT
I was wandering around Asda this evening doing some shopping with my iPod playing. I became aware of a vibrating in my coat and after a good 20-30 seconds of scrabbling around, I located the source of the problem - my phone was ringing. Removing the iPod headphones, I realised it was on top volume, and a good two thirds of the way through 'I wish I could fly' by Keith Harris and Orville. Every shopper within earshot was looking at me like I was a complete and utter twat. I thought it was on vibrate only :-(
Monday 23 July 2007
My cock-biting toilet
I HATE MY TOILET SEAT
Just now, after finishing a sit down I moved forward off the seat and the vicious son-of-a-bitch slammed down on the trailing meat and two veg to bring me to my FUCKING KNEES. I wouldnm't mind if I was hung like Yul Bryner in a rollneck sweater, and I've actually tried a slow-mo replay of the incident since but cannot figure out exactly how it happened logistically. BUT IT HURTS. The old fella has an angry mark and me plums are the size of satsumas. Not a happy chappy.
Mind you, given the crimes against humanity I've sent t'other way in recent times, I suppose some kind of fightback was inevitable
Just now, after finishing a sit down I moved forward off the seat and the vicious son-of-a-bitch slammed down on the trailing meat and two veg to bring me to my FUCKING KNEES. I wouldnm't mind if I was hung like Yul Bryner in a rollneck sweater, and I've actually tried a slow-mo replay of the incident since but cannot figure out exactly how it happened logistically. BUT IT HURTS. The old fella has an angry mark and me plums are the size of satsumas. Not a happy chappy.
Mind you, given the crimes against humanity I've sent t'other way in recent times, I suppose some kind of fightback was inevitable
The inhabitants of Bournemouth on a Saturday night
Jesus H Christ. I don't normally venture out on a saturday night, and now I remember why. What the fuck happened to having fun on a night out, people? By about 2.30am, the town was full of people unable to stand or talk, being sick on each other, fighting with each other, shouting at each other, or stealing each other's taxis. Am I getting old? Yes. But I never acted like such a total cunt when I was in my early 20s.
The place is basically an intelligence bypass. Chavs who have clearly spent a lot of money to look very cheap/just like everyone else strut and posture all night, basically scrapping over some of the ugliest women in Christendom.
Bournemouth on a Saturday - Fuck Right Off. I'm staying in and playing Pictionary from now on.
The place is basically an intelligence bypass. Chavs who have clearly spent a lot of money to look very cheap/just like everyone else strut and posture all night, basically scrapping over some of the ugliest women in Christendom.
Bournemouth on a Saturday - Fuck Right Off. I'm staying in and playing Pictionary from now on.
Friday 20 July 2007
Carrier bags that pretend to be plastic but are in fact paper
Yes, 'Office' shoe people, I'm looking at you. Tonight, I'm going round a friend's for a quiet night in (because we got twatted earlier in the week, randomly, on a tuesday and figured we should save money tonight to make it up.) So, there's four of us. Wine. In a house. I figured - bit of pictionary.
I'm nearly 30 and can't afford a coke habit, okay? It's the closest I can get to fun while staying in.
So, I'm coming into work today and bringing the game with me. I pop it into the office bag, where it fits snug as a bug in a rug. Lovely, thinks I.
Exit house, it's pissing down. So leg it to bus stop. Only I can't get under the shelter properly while waiting for the bus BECAUSE OF THE FOREIGN CUNTING STUDENTS THERE. But I won't go on about that, I'm turning into Bernard Manning and need some new material anyway.
So, the bus arrives, on I get. It's a double decker too - a victory for the little man if you see the post below. I pay. I take three rain-sodden steps into the vehicle, at which point the paper-disguised-as-something-sturdier bag burst open. Pictionarium ensues. Bits of the game everywhere. Am scrabbling around after dice, counters, and most embarrassingly of all old pictionary drawings which had somehow been put back in the box. Almost all of which involved penises.
Fucking great. Now the occupants of the 1c know I am such a rocking bloke, I play pictionary on fridays. Interestingly, if the bus driver reads this blog, they will be able to identify me as the writer of the letter they received earlier this week. Fortunately, he clearly could not read, let alone work a computer.
Phew.
Incidentally, the post below drew a response:
We do not respond to puerile, abusive emails'
I replied pointing out that they had just done exactly that. I think this may mark the end of the correspondance.
I'm nearly 30 and can't afford a coke habit, okay? It's the closest I can get to fun while staying in.
So, I'm coming into work today and bringing the game with me. I pop it into the office bag, where it fits snug as a bug in a rug. Lovely, thinks I.
Exit house, it's pissing down. So leg it to bus stop. Only I can't get under the shelter properly while waiting for the bus BECAUSE OF THE FOREIGN CUNTING STUDENTS THERE. But I won't go on about that, I'm turning into Bernard Manning and need some new material anyway.
So, the bus arrives, on I get. It's a double decker too - a victory for the little man if you see the post below. I pay. I take three rain-sodden steps into the vehicle, at which point the paper-disguised-as-something-sturdier bag burst open. Pictionarium ensues. Bits of the game everywhere. Am scrabbling around after dice, counters, and most embarrassingly of all old pictionary drawings which had somehow been put back in the box. Almost all of which involved penises.
Fucking great. Now the occupants of the 1c know I am such a rocking bloke, I play pictionary on fridays. Interestingly, if the bus driver reads this blog, they will be able to identify me as the writer of the letter they received earlier this week. Fortunately, he clearly could not read, let alone work a computer.
Phew.
Incidentally, the post below drew a response:
We do not respond to puerile, abusive emails'
I replied pointing out that they had just done exactly that. I think this may mark the end of the correspondance.
Wednesday 18 July 2007
Yellow fucking buses
You all know how much I hate buses, although I have to use them as I don't have a car :-(
Here is a transcript of an email sent this morning to Yellow Buses, who operate the line I use to get to and from work. Sometimes, ranting on a blog ain't enough. You gotta go direct, innit.
Dear Morons,
which part of 'rush hour' do you not understand? Having had the misery of enduring a number of your services running between 8 and 9am from Southbourne, I would like to place on record my displeasure at having to share my personal space with a-the public in general and b-loads of sweaty grumpy miserable people with their heads in each other's armpits because your ingenious forward planning department somehow neglected to put a big enough fricking bus on the route. You're the people that I see legging it round Asda at 9.30pm on December 24, amazed that Christmas has crept up on you again, aren't you?
Admittedly, I have made some new friends thanks to your service - to be honest, I have been more intimate with people on that bus than I have been with most of my ex-girlfriends - but it is becoming slightly tiresome. It is only a matter of time before one of us becomes pregnant, dead, or worse.
To aid you, I have come up with an invention all of my own, and have attached a basic prototype sketch of it to this email. I am calling it the 'double decker bus'. It is like a normal bus, but with an extra layer (or 'deck', if you will) added to the top. You may notice in my picture I have drawn people with SMILEY FACES and also added in some EMPTY SPACE. Please forgive me if this is an over-use of artistic license, but hey - it's my drawing and I want to live a little.
Anyway, I have to go now - I've just discovered that the small mexican man who gets on in Boscombe is still in the pocket of my suit and I need to make sure that he gets to work okay, which is more than you twunts can be bothered to do.
Hugs and kisses,
Mikey
Here is a transcript of an email sent this morning to Yellow Buses, who operate the line I use to get to and from work. Sometimes, ranting on a blog ain't enough. You gotta go direct, innit.
Dear Morons,
which part of 'rush hour' do you not understand? Having had the misery of enduring a number of your services running between 8 and 9am from Southbourne, I would like to place on record my displeasure at having to share my personal space with a-the public in general and b-loads of sweaty grumpy miserable people with their heads in each other's armpits because your ingenious forward planning department somehow neglected to put a big enough fricking bus on the route. You're the people that I see legging it round Asda at 9.30pm on December 24, amazed that Christmas has crept up on you again, aren't you?
Admittedly, I have made some new friends thanks to your service - to be honest, I have been more intimate with people on that bus than I have been with most of my ex-girlfriends - but it is becoming slightly tiresome. It is only a matter of time before one of us becomes pregnant, dead, or worse.
To aid you, I have come up with an invention all of my own, and have attached a basic prototype sketch of it to this email. I am calling it the 'double decker bus'. It is like a normal bus, but with an extra layer (or 'deck', if you will) added to the top. You may notice in my picture I have drawn people with SMILEY FACES and also added in some EMPTY SPACE. Please forgive me if this is an over-use of artistic license, but hey - it's my drawing and I want to live a little.
Anyway, I have to go now - I've just discovered that the small mexican man who gets on in Boscombe is still in the pocket of my suit and I need to make sure that he gets to work okay, which is more than you twunts can be bothered to do.
Hugs and kisses,
Mikey
Tuesday 17 July 2007
Seethrough plastic bra straps
Girls - we can see them, you know? Do you really think we can't? You MUST know that we can see them when you couple them with an off-the-shoulder number, so what is the point of them? Wear a strapless one, you look like less of a chav.
What certainly does NOT happen is that you flounce around the pub while us blokes all marvel at the fact that you are clearly not wearing a bra, only for a stray beam of light to catch the shiny surface, betraying the secret that your breasts DO NOT defy gravity.
girls. Officially idiots.
What certainly does NOT happen is that you flounce around the pub while us blokes all marvel at the fact that you are clearly not wearing a bra, only for a stray beam of light to catch the shiny surface, betraying the secret that your breasts DO NOT defy gravity.
girls. Officially idiots.
Monday 16 July 2007
My National Express Coach. Yesterday
Dear God,
I am very very sorry for my earlier rant at foreign students on buses, published elsewhere on this blog. I never expected you to read it, but realise that you must have done, because you punished me by forcing me to sit on a National Express coach from London to Bournemouth yesterday with APPROXIMATELY FIFTY OF THE NOISY CUNTS.
I was particularly happy at the french TWAT sat next to me playing his PSfuckingP all the way through the journey, involving a game where a siren could be heard constantly. Not too bad through headphones, but no - the little surrender monkey had the volume fucking blaring out.
The obligatory 'got together on our foreign school trip couple' were sat in front of me too, copping off sloppily for the entire journey. Not so bad if they weren't such terrible kissers - I thought the first three rows of seats on the coach would have to be painted blue as occupants might get wet. It must have been like french kissing a washing machine.
Some were russian, and one of them had bought a digital camera, and spent the whole journey photographing his mates, then showing them the phtograph. In Russia, this is the funniest thing a person can to, apart from setting fire to a bear. My, how they laughed.
Everywhere I turned, there was something causing the anger within me to seethe. I was well chuffed with the fact that one twat spent 80% of the journey on the stairs to the toilet, chatting up some absolute hound who had clearly sat as far away from him as possible - get the fricking hint, fella. His precarious position meant that he slammed into the back of my seat with every turn and change of speed, which was a really welcome experience. The only highlight came when we took a bend a bit quick for him, and he fell backwards down the stairs with a squeal, accidentally slamming the panic button in the bog so the coach driver had to stop. Even this delicious moment was spoiled for me by the cackling of his international chums though.
Anyway, God, I promise to be more understanding of inbred foreign cunts with no idea of how to behave in a socially acceptable fashion from now on.
Oh wait, no I won't. You bearded cunt.
I am very very sorry for my earlier rant at foreign students on buses, published elsewhere on this blog. I never expected you to read it, but realise that you must have done, because you punished me by forcing me to sit on a National Express coach from London to Bournemouth yesterday with APPROXIMATELY FIFTY OF THE NOISY CUNTS.
I was particularly happy at the french TWAT sat next to me playing his PSfuckingP all the way through the journey, involving a game where a siren could be heard constantly. Not too bad through headphones, but no - the little surrender monkey had the volume fucking blaring out.
The obligatory 'got together on our foreign school trip couple' were sat in front of me too, copping off sloppily for the entire journey. Not so bad if they weren't such terrible kissers - I thought the first three rows of seats on the coach would have to be painted blue as occupants might get wet. It must have been like french kissing a washing machine.
Some were russian, and one of them had bought a digital camera, and spent the whole journey photographing his mates, then showing them the phtograph. In Russia, this is the funniest thing a person can to, apart from setting fire to a bear. My, how they laughed.
Everywhere I turned, there was something causing the anger within me to seethe. I was well chuffed with the fact that one twat spent 80% of the journey on the stairs to the toilet, chatting up some absolute hound who had clearly sat as far away from him as possible - get the fricking hint, fella. His precarious position meant that he slammed into the back of my seat with every turn and change of speed, which was a really welcome experience. The only highlight came when we took a bend a bit quick for him, and he fell backwards down the stairs with a squeal, accidentally slamming the panic button in the bog so the coach driver had to stop. Even this delicious moment was spoiled for me by the cackling of his international chums though.
Anyway, God, I promise to be more understanding of inbred foreign cunts with no idea of how to behave in a socially acceptable fashion from now on.
Oh wait, no I won't. You bearded cunt.
Wednesday 11 July 2007
Google Fucking Ad Sense
For not letting me try and make my millions by hosting advertising here due to 'inappropriate language'. Bunch of cunts.
Tuesday 10 July 2007
Bullshit limited edition food and drink
What the fuck is all that about? Limited edition Coca Cola with orange? Why is it limited edition you fucknuts? Is there any point in getting involved if you're going to stop selling it shortly? Or does it heighten the value? Should I buy fuckloads and wait till you stop manufacturing it, then get it on eBay? Will I make millions?
Fucking doubt it. Now fuck off and go about making me some Cherry Coke Zero because I like it but I'm a fat cunt. And I don't drink diet coke because I'm a real man. Wayne Rooney drinks Coke Zero, so that's okay.
Fucking doubt it. Now fuck off and go about making me some Cherry Coke Zero because I like it but I'm a fat cunt. And I don't drink diet coke because I'm a real man. Wayne Rooney drinks Coke Zero, so that's okay.
Monday 9 July 2007
Kimberly cocking Clark toilet roll dispensers
Which absolute FUCKNUGGET at Kimberley Clark has decided that the way forward for toilet roll dispensation is those single-sheet things?
I do not do dainty poos. I therefore require SUFFICIENT TOILET ROLL QUANTITIES TO WIPE MY FUCKNG BOTTOM YOU MORONS. Giving me loo roll one sheet at a time means that not only do I run the risk of RSI from sitting there for thirty minutes accumulating enough material for a preliminary wipe, but also ensures that I use approximately nine times my body weight in loo roll. And we're supposed to be saving the planet, aren't we?
Presumably, Kimberly Clark HQ and factories will also be fitted with these dispensers, so heaven only knows what kind of torrid state the bottoms of the nation's Kimberly Clark workforce is in.
The upshot of all this is that I was forced to endure a deeply distressign poo at a Beefeater somewhere between Brighton and Bournemouth. I will be writing to Kimberley Clark to appreciate my dissatisfaction at the fact it took me a good fifteen minutes of wiping to get rid of all the men in the rigging. However, in keeping with their company policy, I will post them the letter ONE WORD AT A FUCKING TIME FOR THE NEXT SIX MONTHS.
Shit-wiping mother fuckers.
I do not do dainty poos. I therefore require SUFFICIENT TOILET ROLL QUANTITIES TO WIPE MY FUCKNG BOTTOM YOU MORONS. Giving me loo roll one sheet at a time means that not only do I run the risk of RSI from sitting there for thirty minutes accumulating enough material for a preliminary wipe, but also ensures that I use approximately nine times my body weight in loo roll. And we're supposed to be saving the planet, aren't we?
Presumably, Kimberly Clark HQ and factories will also be fitted with these dispensers, so heaven only knows what kind of torrid state the bottoms of the nation's Kimberly Clark workforce is in.
The upshot of all this is that I was forced to endure a deeply distressign poo at a Beefeater somewhere between Brighton and Bournemouth. I will be writing to Kimberley Clark to appreciate my dissatisfaction at the fact it took me a good fifteen minutes of wiping to get rid of all the men in the rigging. However, in keeping with their company policy, I will post them the letter ONE WORD AT A FUCKING TIME FOR THE NEXT SIX MONTHS.
Shit-wiping mother fuckers.
Thursday 5 July 2007
Groups of foreign students on my cunting bus
Now, this isn't a rant at foreigners in general. I am not a xenophobic chap and welcome all manner of people to our fabulous isle, because they make it what it is. (Some of my friends are black et cetera et fucking cetera). However, anyone who gets the 1c or 1b from Soutbourne will feel this one.
YOU CUNTS
IF you HAVE to get public transport, PLEASE observe some of the simple fucking rules. If there are 368 of you getting on at once, for fuck's sake investigate alternative modes of travel. Because you do it every morning, and it is probably cheaper to hire a limo, head through Boscombe, pick up a whore and some smack, and arrive at your English Language for Waiters course having chucked your muck twice on the journey.
Also, I appreciate that you are not English. I appreciate that English is not your first language. However, when you get THE SAME BUS to the SAME PLACE and you do so EVERY DAY then perhaps it is time to STOP GETTING ON THE CUNTING BUS WITH A MAP, POINTING LAMELY AT A LOCATION AND THEN ASKING THE PERSON BEHIND YOU IF THEY CAN TRANSLATE. 'Errrr, Buscooombey?' Every single day. Whenever I go on holiday, I manage by day two to repeat the phrases I heard on day one. Such as 'large beer', 'where is the clinic?' and 'I'm terribly sorry sir, your daughter looked a lot older than twelve in disco lighting.'
Along the same lines is the cost. When standing in the (12 mile long) queue, why not utilise your time waiting for the bus by getting your change ready. The cost of this journey will be the same as it has been for the previous 220 days that you have made it. Take a wild guess and gamble on getting the change together, instead of trying to impress that monobrowed bint with the braces by showing her your new bandana. It is SO MUCH CUNTING QUICKER than getting on, trying to pay with a fifty pound note, looking upset, getting your debit card out, pointing at a map, then letting your mate behind you pay because he understands the money.
The beauty of it is that after the feckless twunts swarm upstairs en masse, they unpack their 'English as a Foreign Language' books. I want to kill them all in the face.
YOU CUNTS
IF you HAVE to get public transport, PLEASE observe some of the simple fucking rules. If there are 368 of you getting on at once, for fuck's sake investigate alternative modes of travel. Because you do it every morning, and it is probably cheaper to hire a limo, head through Boscombe, pick up a whore and some smack, and arrive at your English Language for Waiters course having chucked your muck twice on the journey.
Also, I appreciate that you are not English. I appreciate that English is not your first language. However, when you get THE SAME BUS to the SAME PLACE and you do so EVERY DAY then perhaps it is time to STOP GETTING ON THE CUNTING BUS WITH A MAP, POINTING LAMELY AT A LOCATION AND THEN ASKING THE PERSON BEHIND YOU IF THEY CAN TRANSLATE. 'Errrr, Buscooombey?' Every single day. Whenever I go on holiday, I manage by day two to repeat the phrases I heard on day one. Such as 'large beer', 'where is the clinic?' and 'I'm terribly sorry sir, your daughter looked a lot older than twelve in disco lighting.'
Along the same lines is the cost. When standing in the (12 mile long) queue, why not utilise your time waiting for the bus by getting your change ready. The cost of this journey will be the same as it has been for the previous 220 days that you have made it. Take a wild guess and gamble on getting the change together, instead of trying to impress that monobrowed bint with the braces by showing her your new bandana. It is SO MUCH CUNTING QUICKER than getting on, trying to pay with a fifty pound note, looking upset, getting your debit card out, pointing at a map, then letting your mate behind you pay because he understands the money.
The beauty of it is that after the feckless twunts swarm upstairs en masse, they unpack their 'English as a Foreign Language' books. I want to kill them all in the face.
Sweet and shitting Sour Sauce
Because the fucking gippo in me always keeps it when I get a takeway.
Ooh, I know - I'll put that in the fridge. For next time. When once again I will get a portion of this unidentifiable sauce that is 178,000% more than I use. Which means I will then have TWO in the fridge.
I never seem to throw the stuff out. I just found four 90% full cartons of it in my firdge. One of them had an IQ of 34.
Ooh, I know - I'll put that in the fridge. For next time. When once again I will get a portion of this unidentifiable sauce that is 178,000% more than I use. Which means I will then have TWO in the fridge.
I never seem to throw the stuff out. I just found four 90% full cartons of it in my firdge. One of them had an IQ of 34.
Tuesday 3 July 2007
All I've heard for months is 'are you on Facebook?' 'Get yourself on Facebook!' 'How come you're not on Facebook yet?' Today I gave in and signed up. What a bag of minge. First, apparently I can't live in Bournemouth. I have to live in Portsmouth or Bristol. Twont. I do not live in Portsmouth. I live in Bournemouth. Apparently, the 'social networking of the future' doesn't have the fucking ability to contemplate this remarkable possibility. So now I am a member of a 'Portsmouth network' despite never having even fucking been there. Bullshit.
Second, the thing asks for FAR too much fucking information. If I pull, and the missus is on Facebook, I can add her so the whole world knows. Then, when things go wrong (as they inevitably will when she checks my internet favourites or finds the bits of the prostitute I couldn't flush away) you can all tell exactly when I added the fact that things were 'complicated' and then when the final nail is hammered into the coffin, when I am single again. Fucking marvellous. 'Oh look - he fucked this one up even quicker than the last one. Three days! Silly cunt!'
Third, if I want to stay in touch with you, I'll probably make the effort. The number of people fawning all over each other on there is sickening. 'Oh babe I missed you so much when you moved to Brighton'. THEY HAVE TELEPHONES IN BRIGHTON TOO. you obviously weren't that fucking bothered were you?
Fourth, the cunting thing kept telling me it had sent a confirmation to my email address which never turned up. Stop lying.
Fifth (I'm going to stop counting now, this might be quite a long post, go and get a cuppa if I were you) is the fact that it won't verify me because my mobile phone doesn't allow verification. It looks real enough to me, but the joyuos upshot of this is that I have to strain my eyes trying to read some twisted combination of letters and numbers every time I do anything on the fucking site. Its a miracle I haven't had at least four epileptic fits so far. And is that an O or a 0? WHY EVEN USE THEM BOTH IN THAT SCENARIO YOU STUPID RETARDED CUNT OF A WEBSITE?
Is the world REALLY that bothered about what I'm doing at the weekend? even my mum couldn't give a shit, so the chance to tell the world I will be selling my remaining furniture before injecting crack into my eyeballs seems a tad wasted.
And I can poke people. Exept I presume it doesn't ACTUALLY hunt them down and send some numpty from Facebook HQ to burst into their office and poke them. I can also do all manner of other things (hug, kiss, drop kick, dance) but again - what's the difference? Surely it just sends them a message? Can I finger a stranger? That might make it worthwhile.
It's an unwieldy, badly programmed, poorly thought-out bag of shit that I have signed up to so I can write on the walls of people who sit in my own fucking office. I mean, this sort of freinds reunited thing is kinda understandable, but people are using it to communicate with people that THEY CAN JUST FUCKING EMAIL. It's that god-awful 'look at me, I'm in the cool gang, see all my friends, look how beautiful they all are' mentality that makes me sooooo fucking annoyed.
And lastly, there was a story that broke today about a tramp in Bournemouth who has his own fan club or community or whatever it is on the site. He wanders around the town (I've seen the guy loads of times) and is a friendly old sort, often posing for photos with people and he has got this remarkable ability to get the time right without wearing a watch. Though the fact he doesn;t have a house suggests its not actually all that useful a talent, to be fair.
Anyway, some totally fucking brilliantly cool and witty student has put a fan club on there, and it now has over 5,000 members. Well done people.How fucking cool you all are. Well done you. Let's laugh at the bloke, let's show HOW FUCKING SUPERIOR we are, lets be totally fucking hilarious by doing this. But lets not actually have the bollocks to admit this; oh no. Lets pretend that we do it because we care, not because our shithole lives have left us without enough personality for us to qualify as interesting in our own right. Instead, let's share photographs of us dressed in top shops finest clothes on our cunty hen nights posing with the bloke, about whom we know nothing and care less. Let's bask in the reflected post-modern irony of the fact that the bloke doesn't have a computer.
Now, the fact is that the guy will do okay out of this - people will give him a few more quid etc, and he has become something of a celebrity. But if any one of you cunts pretends that's why your fucking well doing it then I will hunt you down and shit in your fucking mouth. you're laughing at the bloke and I hope all your children grow up to have small cocks. Even the girls. His group (it's Gordon the Tramp, by the way) has 5,700 members when I checked just now. Tell you what. If you all think he's that much of a legend, who don;t you all give him a tenner? Might help him out a bit, eh, and you wouldn't all feel like such cunts deep down inside. Motherfuckers.
Oh, and for the record, next time I see him I probably will say hi, like i often do. I don't need some cunty website to make me feel hilarious for doing so. Fuck you, facebook.
Second, the thing asks for FAR too much fucking information. If I pull, and the missus is on Facebook, I can add her so the whole world knows. Then, when things go wrong (as they inevitably will when she checks my internet favourites or finds the bits of the prostitute I couldn't flush away) you can all tell exactly when I added the fact that things were 'complicated' and then when the final nail is hammered into the coffin, when I am single again. Fucking marvellous. 'Oh look - he fucked this one up even quicker than the last one. Three days! Silly cunt!'
Third, if I want to stay in touch with you, I'll probably make the effort. The number of people fawning all over each other on there is sickening. 'Oh babe I missed you so much when you moved to Brighton'. THEY HAVE TELEPHONES IN BRIGHTON TOO. you obviously weren't that fucking bothered were you?
Fourth, the cunting thing kept telling me it had sent a confirmation to my email address which never turned up. Stop lying.
Fifth (I'm going to stop counting now, this might be quite a long post, go and get a cuppa if I were you) is the fact that it won't verify me because my mobile phone doesn't allow verification. It looks real enough to me, but the joyuos upshot of this is that I have to strain my eyes trying to read some twisted combination of letters and numbers every time I do anything on the fucking site. Its a miracle I haven't had at least four epileptic fits so far. And is that an O or a 0? WHY EVEN USE THEM BOTH IN THAT SCENARIO YOU STUPID RETARDED CUNT OF A WEBSITE?
Is the world REALLY that bothered about what I'm doing at the weekend? even my mum couldn't give a shit, so the chance to tell the world I will be selling my remaining furniture before injecting crack into my eyeballs seems a tad wasted.
And I can poke people. Exept I presume it doesn't ACTUALLY hunt them down and send some numpty from Facebook HQ to burst into their office and poke them. I can also do all manner of other things (hug, kiss, drop kick, dance) but again - what's the difference? Surely it just sends them a message? Can I finger a stranger? That might make it worthwhile.
It's an unwieldy, badly programmed, poorly thought-out bag of shit that I have signed up to so I can write on the walls of people who sit in my own fucking office. I mean, this sort of freinds reunited thing is kinda understandable, but people are using it to communicate with people that THEY CAN JUST FUCKING EMAIL. It's that god-awful 'look at me, I'm in the cool gang, see all my friends, look how beautiful they all are' mentality that makes me sooooo fucking annoyed.
And lastly, there was a story that broke today about a tramp in Bournemouth who has his own fan club or community or whatever it is on the site. He wanders around the town (I've seen the guy loads of times) and is a friendly old sort, often posing for photos with people and he has got this remarkable ability to get the time right without wearing a watch. Though the fact he doesn;t have a house suggests its not actually all that useful a talent, to be fair.
Anyway, some totally fucking brilliantly cool and witty student has put a fan club on there, and it now has over 5,000 members. Well done people.How fucking cool you all are. Well done you. Let's laugh at the bloke, let's show HOW FUCKING SUPERIOR we are, lets be totally fucking hilarious by doing this. But lets not actually have the bollocks to admit this; oh no. Lets pretend that we do it because we care, not because our shithole lives have left us without enough personality for us to qualify as interesting in our own right. Instead, let's share photographs of us dressed in top shops finest clothes on our cunty hen nights posing with the bloke, about whom we know nothing and care less. Let's bask in the reflected post-modern irony of the fact that the bloke doesn't have a computer.
Now, the fact is that the guy will do okay out of this - people will give him a few more quid etc, and he has become something of a celebrity. But if any one of you cunts pretends that's why your fucking well doing it then I will hunt you down and shit in your fucking mouth. you're laughing at the bloke and I hope all your children grow up to have small cocks. Even the girls. His group (it's Gordon the Tramp, by the way) has 5,700 members when I checked just now. Tell you what. If you all think he's that much of a legend, who don;t you all give him a tenner? Might help him out a bit, eh, and you wouldn't all feel like such cunts deep down inside. Motherfuckers.
Oh, and for the record, next time I see him I probably will say hi, like i often do. I don't need some cunty website to make me feel hilarious for doing so. Fuck you, facebook.
Monday 2 July 2007
Hyundai Q321 remote con-fucking-trol
I've fucking had it with you you multi-buttoned little shit. Having forked out the GDP of Africa in order to buy a telly big enough to be visible from space (don't write in if yours is bigger, I will only hunt you down and kick your children) I EXPECT THE REMOTE CONTROL TO FUCKING WORK. ALL THE TIME. Not just on those rare moments when the planets align in just the right manner to cause total equilibrium in the air between the remote control and the telly.
The red light blinks away impotently on the remote, telling me SOMETHING is happening, but does it actually have ANY effect on the telly itself? Does it bollocks. It's no good having buttons I don't even UNDERSTAND if you won't even change bastard channel. Picture in picture? ANY KIND OF FUCKING PICTURE WOULD BE A START. The fact that sometimes you hijack the Virgin box is even more terrifying/annoying, especially as that remote control is also a bit dodgy. Fuck knows what is going on when I press your buttons becausae the telly isn';t responding at all. Some old dear at the end of the street might find her mobility buggy doing wheelspins in the dining room for all I know, or perhaps you're firing up the woman next door's love eggs - I don't know and I don't cocking well care. I WANT TO WATCH SKY SPORTS WITHOUT GETTING OUT OF MY SEAT. IT'S NOT MUCH TO ASK.
And why the fucking hell don't you have a mute button, you cunt? Not that it would work anyway, admittedly, but when my mum phones and I don't want her to hear the lesbian porno I've been whacking off to for the previous hour, it would be VERY FUCKING NICE OF YOU to let me turn the sound off instantly, instead of having to frantically thumb through the volume control when I've already got the phone in one hand and a tissue in the other. The fading sound is confusing as well, it sounds like someone having an orgasm in a passing car.
Hyundai should stick to cars, but they're shit at them too. Had one on holiday once, a Hyundai Fuckwit or something it was called. Couldn't do hills, but was no less effective at changing channels on my telly than one of their cunty remote controls.
The red light blinks away impotently on the remote, telling me SOMETHING is happening, but does it actually have ANY effect on the telly itself? Does it bollocks. It's no good having buttons I don't even UNDERSTAND if you won't even change bastard channel. Picture in picture? ANY KIND OF FUCKING PICTURE WOULD BE A START. The fact that sometimes you hijack the Virgin box is even more terrifying/annoying, especially as that remote control is also a bit dodgy. Fuck knows what is going on when I press your buttons becausae the telly isn';t responding at all. Some old dear at the end of the street might find her mobility buggy doing wheelspins in the dining room for all I know, or perhaps you're firing up the woman next door's love eggs - I don't know and I don't cocking well care. I WANT TO WATCH SKY SPORTS WITHOUT GETTING OUT OF MY SEAT. IT'S NOT MUCH TO ASK.
And why the fucking hell don't you have a mute button, you cunt? Not that it would work anyway, admittedly, but when my mum phones and I don't want her to hear the lesbian porno I've been whacking off to for the previous hour, it would be VERY FUCKING NICE OF YOU to let me turn the sound off instantly, instead of having to frantically thumb through the volume control when I've already got the phone in one hand and a tissue in the other. The fading sound is confusing as well, it sounds like someone having an orgasm in a passing car.
Hyundai should stick to cars, but they're shit at them too. Had one on holiday once, a Hyundai Fuckwit or something it was called. Couldn't do hills, but was no less effective at changing channels on my telly than one of their cunty remote controls.
Sodding bus drivers
Why are you so fucking miserable when people want to get on your bus? You get paid not a bad wage (18k in Bournemouth) to drive like a total cunt because no-one dare crash into you for fear of death. The purpose of your job is to get people from A to B, so when they ask you to halt your imperious progress through Southbourne long enough to get on your bus, LOOK A BIT FUCKING HAPPIER ABOUT IT.
If you were the bloke today on the 1C at 8.40ish through Southbourne with a face like a bag of smashed twats, kindly tender your resignation immediately. Not only did you scowl at people for getting on, you actually played chicken with people trying to stop you by driving towards their stop so fast that you can only have been assuming they wouldn't DARE put their arm out for fear of losing it. Well, news just in, cuntbag - slamming on the brakes so hard that those of us on the upstairs deck were actually weightless for 15.4 seconds doesn't help anyone either.
Ironic though, given the speed at which you hoon around the town, that you find time to stop and chat with your chavvy bus-driving mates through the window WHEREVER YOU HAPPEN TO MEET THEM.
And while I'm on the subject, just because you spend all day looking at your hands/forearms while you contemplate exactly where your life went so wrong does NOT make it a good idea to decorate them with as much Elizabeth Duke bling/ homemade tattooing as possible. It makes you look like an even bigger cunt that the fact there is an old woman at the back of your bus who has been trying to get off since 1985 but hasn't made it close enough to the front before you wheelspin away from the stop like Lewis Hamilton, projecting the poor osteoperosis-riddled cow back into her seat at the rear.
The only bus driver exempt from this rant is the fit young blonde one who hails from somewhere in Eastern Europe, who sometimes does the 1c or the 4a/b on saturdays. I like her, and would do her in the following order of preference
Face, bum, minge.
If you were the bloke today on the 1C at 8.40ish through Southbourne with a face like a bag of smashed twats, kindly tender your resignation immediately. Not only did you scowl at people for getting on, you actually played chicken with people trying to stop you by driving towards their stop so fast that you can only have been assuming they wouldn't DARE put their arm out for fear of losing it. Well, news just in, cuntbag - slamming on the brakes so hard that those of us on the upstairs deck were actually weightless for 15.4 seconds doesn't help anyone either.
Ironic though, given the speed at which you hoon around the town, that you find time to stop and chat with your chavvy bus-driving mates through the window WHEREVER YOU HAPPEN TO MEET THEM.
And while I'm on the subject, just because you spend all day looking at your hands/forearms while you contemplate exactly where your life went so wrong does NOT make it a good idea to decorate them with as much Elizabeth Duke bling/ homemade tattooing as possible. It makes you look like an even bigger cunt that the fact there is an old woman at the back of your bus who has been trying to get off since 1985 but hasn't made it close enough to the front before you wheelspin away from the stop like Lewis Hamilton, projecting the poor osteoperosis-riddled cow back into her seat at the rear.
The only bus driver exempt from this rant is the fit young blonde one who hails from somewhere in Eastern Europe, who sometimes does the 1c or the 4a/b on saturdays. I like her, and would do her in the following order of preference
Face, bum, minge.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)