Metaphore: Was RickRolling Responsible For 9/11?
Posted on | November 10, 2008 | By steven | No Comments
Dead Welsh poet Dylan Thomas once said,
“SOMEONE’S BORING ME. I THINK IT’S ME.”
Dylan, you bore the crap out of me too, sunshine, but spare us the pretentious soundbites already. Yes, yes, I understand what you mean - that when one is bored, it is primarily with one’s self - but it’s painfully fucking obvious to me that you never once bothered taking an hour out of your angsty little existence to visit my office, or sit amongst my colleagues.
Because if you had, this post would’ve started thus…
Dead Welsh poet Dylan Thomas once said,
“SOMEONE’S BORING ME. OH LOOK, IT’S YOU!”
Right on, Taffy.
The dipshits I have to endure day in, day out, truly inspire me. They inspire me to daydream endlessly about unloading an AK-47 into their fucking moronic faces, taking a steaming dump on the carcasses, video taping the horrific slaughter scene, and sending it first class, sealed with a loving kiss to their soon-to-be-grieving parents (a.k.a. the guilty parties responsible for my misery).
Fortunately for them, getting gang-raped in a prison shower by an assortment of hairy-knuckled psycho nutjobs is not high on my wishlist, so instead, I suffer in silent inner rage…and write bad prose for this increasingly pointless blog.
The following is a true story.
if you’ve ever boiled the very essence of humanity down to a single word - as I have - you’ll already know what’s coming next, because you, too, understand that people are complete knobknockers the whole world over.
It’s Monday, 9:17am.
I’ve just finished carefully deleting every piece of shit email that’s arrived since the previous Friday evening, including any work related ones (fuck me, dickheads, what do you think I do all weekend? Give myself a boner dialling into the corporate network to read my email? Check my contract, bitches. The weekend is Steve time).
Satisfied with my efforts, I step outside to have a smoke and kill some time.
Eventually I slope back to my desk to find a new message waiting in my inbox. You can imagine my deep sense of joy.
I open it up. It’s from the office “joker”, a scumbag twat-thumper whom I regard as mildly less amusing than a chance encounter between my jugular and a meat-hook. The subject line reads:
“FW: FW: FW: OMG! YOU’VE GOT TO SEE THIS!!!”
Clocking the amount of recipients, I realise this fucking email must’ve crashed Hotmail’s servers harder than Evel Knievel into a row of buses. I mean, even a badass major-league spammer would cut off and stir-fry his own cock to get a list of addresses this goddamn big.
After scrolling down for an hour or so, I realise the stupid cunt, despite CC’ing his latest fucktard email to two-thirds of the world’s population, has forgotten to include his own manageress.
What a dick!
I thoughfully forward it to her on his behalf, adding my own thoughts RE: Ideal Redundancy Candidates.
Then I delete the original email unread.
Less than thirty seconds later, I hear commentary from what I recognise as last week’s thriller at the Emirates stadium, Arsenal vs Spurs, a game in which I very nearly came in my pants when midget maestro Aaron Lennon poked home a 94th minute equaliser.
The sound starts pouring out of first one PC, then two, then seven or eight.
It’s office joker’s message. And he’s an Arsenal fan. Something’s about to happen, and I’ve got a pretty good idea what…
And after about five seconds, the gobshite’s complete lack of original thought is confirmed.
“…he waited and waited, smelling the run from Jenas, but couldn’t find it. Silvestre intercepts. It’s very loose at the moment. AND THAT IS AN AMAZI…”
“…NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP, NEVER GONNA LET YOU DOWN, NEVER GONNA RUN AROUND AND DESERT YOU…”
OMG indeed.
I can’t believe it. He’s Rickrolled ‘em. He’s actually fucking Rickrolled ‘em.
And what’s more, the cretins are lapping it up like bukkuke queens at a spunk-swallowing contest. Even Grumpy Colin, the only person in the office I tolerate without complete and open disdain, is laughing harder than my wife did the first time I dropped my keks with the lights on.
And once again I toss up the pro’s and con’s of taking the ultimate stand, ending with me taking the role of Bubba’s pet-bitch, getting my arsehole ripped apart every night during a 20-stretch in Strangeways. The pro’s just gained another point, by the way.
End of true story.
FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS
1. “So, Steve, one thing…Rickrolled? I must’ve missed that meeting, ’cause I haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re on about. What the hell is Rickrolling?”
Thanks for asking, you stupid lazy cunt. Let me guess…you’re like, totally unemployed! Am I right? Before you ask, no, I’m not Gypsy Rose Lee. I came to my conclusion using solid logical reasoning:
- Rickrolling is akin to your mum shagging every patient in an AIDS hospital. It’d be impossible to avoid getting something nasty in her box.
- Therefore, if you’ve never been Rickrolled, or Rickrolling has somehow miraculously passed you by…
- You have no concept of email as a communication medium. And if you don’t use email…
- The only realistic explanation is that you don’t have a job.
- Ergo, you are a stupid lazy cunt.
Capiche?
OK, now we both know where we stand, let me explain Rickrolling to you.
Rickrolling, as oft-used as it still is, is such a desperately obsolete office prank, the last edition of the Oxford English Dictionary to include it as an actual word was published in 1926.
I couldn’t be fucking bothered to define it in my own words, so I hot footed it down to the British Museum, asked the curator for the only remaining priceless copy, ripped out the relevant page, dodged the chasing security guards, evaded my fare home, scanned it in, and uploaded it just for you.
Perhaps if you were that committed to a cause, you’d already have a stinking job, and I wouldn’t have to explain the in’s and out’s of a duck’s arse to you every five minutes.
Here’s the official, royally approved definition:
You still look a little confused. OK then, numbnut, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt (again)…and we’ll pretend you’re a “visual learner”, instead of the dyslexic spastic we both know you really are.
Let’s go back to the Rickroll office jokerboy sent round. Picture the scene…
A revitalised Tottenham team, spraying the ball around like Brazil in ‘82. It eventually finds David Bentley, seemingly in no man’s land, fully 43 yards from goal. The keeper’s just off his line. Bentley looks up and, after two touches of sublime genius, twats the ball towards goal like a rocket. It dips at the last second, and I rise tentatively from my seat, singing “Glory glory Tottenham Hotsp…
…And at the precise moment I would’ve otherwise ruined my underpants, the video instantly segues to the suck-my-plums gingerness of Rick Astley’s gurning mug, dancing across the screen like my rat-arsed aunt at a wedding, singing like he’s using some kind of comedy “timbre-altering” microphone.
Comprendez?
Sublime Genius -> Suck-My-Plums Gingerness
That is Rickrolling in all it’s cuntastrophic banality.
Spot the difference now, mofo?
2. “Come on, Steve. Rick Astley’s not that bad. After all, he…”
…Stop the fuck there, nutlicker.
Let me make this very clear. Astley has just one redeeming feature…ipso facto he effectively and single-handedly settled the abortion debate once and for all. Even the staunchest Pro-Life schmucks get to the game quick-smart the first time they get Rickrolled.
Fact Of The Day: Astley is living, breathing proof that abortion shouldn’t be abolished…it should be positively fucking encouraged.
3. “OK. You Win. What’s your plan?”
Here’s what we’ve agreed so far:
Office jokers are cyber-terrorists, and Rickrolls are hara-kiri pilots smashing their hijacked planes into the Twin Towers of our sense of humour.
It’s time to fight back. Time to fight fire with fire. Time to unleash our own weapon of mass destruction.
Introducing…
“RICK’S REVERSAL”
What’s the biggest problem, nay shortcoming, with Rickrolling. Answer: The victim never has to suffer the full 3 minutes 34 seconds of Astley’s tuneless bluster. It’s that fucking simple.
Here’s what happens in real life:
- Victim opens up email from office joker/random stranger - the subject line is something like, “Hot! Paris And Pammy’s Secret Home Movie!!!”.
- Victim clicks the link like a brain-dead lemming (brain-dead lemmings can’t resist anything that calls itself a secret).
- Instead of seeing the Rich Whore & Super MILF hard at it with a double-ender, Victim is exposed to Rick Astley.
- Victim laughs like a retard until his erection subsides, then closes Rickroll email.
Total cost to the victim: 5 seconds, max.
Well, that ain’t good enough. The cunts need to feel the pain.
Maybe then they wouldn’t piss themselves like a peenarse next time they get Rickrolled.
Maybe they, too, would harbour murderous fantasies about their own dipshit co-workers (best case scenario).
And maybe the balance would be redressed.
What I needed was an Anti-Rickroll. Something even lamer, even more pointless and even more excruciating to endure than a traditional Rickroll. But was that even possible?
I brainstormed for an answer. I was Mr Fucking Blue Sky Solutioneer. Here’s what I determined…
The Problem: The victims don’t suffer enough. Therefore, they accept - and sometimes almost enjoy - being Rickrolled. This is not an option.
How Can I Make Them Suffer? By forcing them to watch the northern, one-tit-short-of-an-udder wankstain from start to bloody finish.
The Solution: Rick’s Reversal.
Here’s the skinny. Watch out for the clever twist.
Rickrolling = Make victims swallow the bait and believe they’re gonna see something interesting, then give ‘em the old switcheroo, and show them a Rick Astley video instead.
Rick’s Reversal = Make victims swallow the bait and believe they’re gonna see something interesting in a Rick Astley video, then do nothing.
Genius.
Here’s an example, admittedly not a very good one. Who do you think I am? Alfred Fucking Hitchcock?
The set up: There are Secret, Subliminal Messages Hidden Inside A Rick Astley Video. We’ve already established the word “Secret” will be enough to get our victims clicking faster than a teacher in a porn storm. We introduce the subject, explaining what they are about to see, and urge them to “watch closely” for the subliminal messages (which we mention will be almost impossible to spot). We also say we’ll reveal all at the end.
The sting: We play the whole video. Of course there aren’t any hidden messages, and our d-bag loser viewers have just lost 5 minutes of their lives. Perfect.
So there you have it. The impossible made reality. Rickroll 2.0 - Rick’s Reversal - the most meaningless waste of time ever.
I implore you, dear reader, tell your friends, spread the word, send an email to everyone you know. Digg it, Stumble it, add it to your Facebook page. Blog it, spam some forums, I.M. it, text it, forchristsake write a fucking book about it and sell it on Amazon.
Just don’t rest until every bollock-brained office joker on the planet - and their wacky fucking emails - have been driven into extinction.
Because remember, human lives are at stake…
Tags: rick roll > rick rolled > rick roller > rick rolling > rickroll > rickrolled > rickroller > rickrolling
When Will You Gullible Fuckers Ever Learn?
Posted on | October 31, 2008 | By steven | No Comments
Johnathon Ross and Russell Brand’s BBC careers are under threat following a media shit-storm, stirred up when the pair left a series of outrageous answerphone messages aimed at comedy “legend” Andrew Sachs during their hilarious radio show.
And by hilarious I, of course, mean totally fucking shit.
Make no mistake, that pair of turgid turds will wipe the floor with allcomers in our forthcoming gala event: “The Manic Whiner Top 10 Most Talentless Fuckers Of All Time Awards”. Oh, If you don’t want to know the winners, don’t read the previous sentence.
But that’s not the reason for this post. No. This is all about you pissy little tossers who actually took time out of your lives to complain to the BBC. And yes, Gordon Brown, that includes you.
Whilst reading the whole non-story on the train, squashed up against three cackling middle aged bints, whose collective stinking hairspray had combined in the air so violently I was contemplating - literally - cutting my nose off to spite my face, I was struck with the only sensible thought possible…
“BIG FUCKING DEAL”
…and promptly forgot about it, moving on to the footie reports.
However, fast forward three days, and it’s still all over the front pages like a dead Queen. Jesus H. Christ, hasn’t anyone heard there’s, like, a global financial meltdown going on? You know, something a bit more important to worry about. Hundreds of thousands staring homelessness and poverty square in the face…and so the speccy twat journalist wankers of the world take it upon themselves to vilify a pair of useless clowns instead. Good work, fuckos.
Worse still is that, at the time of writing, over 30,000 bleating middle class, middle-England douchebags have jammed the BBC hotline demanding “justice”. Erm, for what exactly?
I have my own reasons for wanting to give Ross and Brand a well aimed studded boot to the crotch:
Ross is such a smug bastard, if he were a bar of chocolate he’d fucking eat himself. He’s the human equivalent of an “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt. An utter cunt. Do yourself a favour, dear reader. Take yourself down to Catherine House and check out Johnathon Ross’ birth certificate. You’ll discover it’s a letter of apology from the condom factory. Fact.
As for Brand, well, where do I start? Look, I know we all sprung from apes, but poor old Russell clearly didn’t spring far enough, did he? He’s the only primate I know who’d have to dress down to look normal at a Wookie conference. And honestly, I swear I’ll have a bigger belly laugh the day I’m told I’ve got terminal cancer than I ever have suffering his crappy sodding comedy routines.
Having said that, I’m on their side in this sorry excuse of a news saga.
Let’s examine the evidence:
1. Ross and Brand invite Andrew Sachs onto their radio show.
2. Sachs doesn’t bother showing up.
3. Ross and Brand leave messages on answerphone, claiming Brand had shagged Sachs’ grand-daughter. They also suggest breaking into Sachs’ house to wipe the answerphone messages, and offer to wank the old git off in his sleep by means of an apology.
4. Sachs get the hump. Brand resigns. Ross gets a slapped wrist.
Fuck me.
Listen, I don’t want to boast, but I mastered the art of speaking-out-loud at around three years of age. So which brain-free loser at the BBC decided that Johnathon Ross even has the core competencies (say, being able to enunciate words, for example) for a glitterwing wadio caweer?
Then there’s Andrew Sachs. The nation’s favourite pretend Spanish waitor, and…well, absolutely nothing else. Now I must confess, I haven’t read the “what constitutes a comedy legend?” rule book for a while (my bad).
But if you honestly believe it’s possible to qualify by saying “Barthelona” a few times in a piss-poor accent, whilst getting twatted around the head with a frying pan, then feel free to pop over to my house and I’ll happily make a legend out of you, too.
Sachs, like the true gentleman he thinks he is, said of the whole incident, “It’s not me they need to apologise to, it’s my grand-daughter”. Cock.
Which brings us nicely on to the epicentre of this twisted train wreck of fuck-all, “aspiring model” (and, wouldn’t you know, ex-porn star!), Miss Georgina Baillie.
Here’s what she had to say about her ordeal - edited to get to the goddamn point:
“…I’M DEEPLY DISTURBED.”
Boo Fucking Hoo.
Judging by that photo, I’m not going to argue, but come on sweetheart, what kind of easy-mark dipshit sucker do you take me for?
Her day job is prancing around on stage with pseudo-lesbian minge-eating dance muppets, “The Satanic Sluts”, a blur of bad lipstick, PVC, and fake orgasms…entertaining roomfulls of 40-something virgins who haven’t seen a pair of tits in the flesh since they moved onto solid food (or ironically, visited the Ross & Brand Roadshow).
The girl with a history of getting nailed more often than a suicide bomb victim is “shocked and offended” at the suggestion that Russell Brand had given her one. Whatever.
Of course, I don’t believe for a minute that Brand actually did fuck her. After all, she must be far too busy getting a pounding from her new publicist, cunt-of-the-year-46-years-running Max Clifford. A thouroughly contemptible, vile little grief-hole.
This entire episode is yet another cut-throat con job designed entirely to line Clifford’s pockets with more ill-gotten cash, and all you gullible twats who got steamed up enough to demand the scalps of Ross and Brand ate his shit up with a fucking silver spoon. You and Max Clifford deserve each other.
And when your house gets repossessed because you were too busy having a heart attack over a bad joke rather than actually reading the real fucking news…well, I’ll be at the auction, cash in hand, pissing myself with laughter.
Laters.
Homeless rant
Posted on | October 30, 2008 | By greg | No Comments
Statement of intent
Posted on | October 29, 2008 | By greg | No Comments
If you like whining, then this is the place for you. If you’ve a soft spot for ranting, then look no further. If you have a penchant for a good moan, then you’re in luck. If you like to read carefully considered opinions, balanced views, with a healthy scoop of dry wit for dessert, then frankly you ‘d be best advised to fu*k off elsewhere. We deal in random whining/ranting that is sometimes justified, often misguided, with childish sulking at a premium. Occasionally it’ll be topical, but mostly it will be spur of the moment bile aimed at whoever or whatever we deem fitting, with a dollop of self pity reserved for ourselves. You don’t need to know anything about us, as there’s nothing interesting to know, and besides the only people that will ever read our musings will likely be people that already know us. There is no agenda, and possibly no point. We will be venting our spleens online for no other reason than because we can.