Drunkorexia is my new favourite thing

The movie of the week/book of the month is a little thing called drunkorexia, a term not yet recognised by most spell-checks and does not yet have its own Wikipedia page (although type it into Wikipedia and you will be suggested a completely different page of equal amount of new-world weirdness), but it is popular enough to have been mentioned on sites such as The New York Times, The Sunday Times and now my blog. Drunkorexia (if you’re too awesome to have clicked on those links to check it out already) is what it says on the package; it’s a combination of two of the stupidest things ever, and made even more stupid in its marriage. If you still haven’t figured it out, it’s a cross between drunkenness and anorexia, although more accurately it’s a cross between binge-drinking and bulimia, two of the most physically debilitating ways to to address attention to yourself. The main philosophy of drunkorexia is if you’re gonna make yourself puke, why not be numbingly piss-faced whilst doing it? Someone finally found the correlation between bulimia and excessive drinking and invented this new technique to make friends.

Drunkorexia is only one of many stupid (keyword) new conditions newly implemented, mainly by the shittiest generation ever (ref: God). Drunkorexia can sit neatly on a shelf of stupidity and worthless self-importance next to anorexia, bulimia, Princess Bitch syndrome, and cerebral chlamydia. What kind of crappy conditions are those?? Back in my day, we had cancer; that shit would creep up on your and fuck your ass (that was ass cancer). I don’t believe in mental conditions where the cure is to do nothing. Are you dramatically affected by pictures in magazines, on game shows, on tumblr sites, and in porn movies that redefine beauty as being skeletally slender? Suffer from constantly being bulimic all over your friends? Do nothing. Can’t stop packing on the kilos? Do nothing. Have a sexual fondness for infants? Do nothing. To be more specific, be more open to various forms of beauty, don’t allow yourself to be overcome by urges that are harmful to your body. And stop being a cunt about all this. You’re not a victim if you have put the troubles entirely on yourself. We’ve fallen into a pathetic downward spiral of white people problems; of middle-upper class kids with rich parents, supplying them with enough money that the surplus couldn’t be used or anything else but drugs, priveledged up the ass to saturate them to the point of self-loathing and an impossibility to receive compliments, or feel good emotions at all, unless under the influence of alcohol, hard drugs, or shitty music . Back when I was a kid, all I ever had was a Super Nintendo, a Game Boy Pocket, a TV, a VCR, an RC car, a four-gear mountain bike, a trampoline, a basketball hoop, a non-fold-up scooter, and a fold-up scooter. My materialism was totally malnourished; I had to be dangerously and recklessly creative with my hours and hours and months of free time. And I was all the more happier for it. Now, as I type this out on my iPad 2.0, observed through my Oliver Peoples glasses, sitting in my Drexel Heritage Italian leather sofa, clothed in a tailor-made Armani suit, listening to a vinyl of OK Computer by Radiohead being blasted through my Dolby Digital 5.1 surround sound set-up, I can’t help but think this generation of assholes has gotten so caught up in needless material goods. And how the fuck does this even tie in with drunkorexia? What the fuck am I talking about? Dammit, I need a paragraph break.

So back to regurgitated vodka. I myself am cautious of my alcohol intake when I’m at a party or wake, for fear of vomiting myself pretty in front of some hot chick I’d been chatting up with whom I had no chance with anyway. I am statistically the only person of my age group who drinks responsibly and by responsibly I mean I rock up to the event with no BYO, steal everyone else’s (including the bartenders), start a fight with the bouncer to show how hardcore I am to his girlfriend, make out with my best friend for free drinks, drive drunk, not give a fuck, stick middle finger out the window and scream at the world, my friend is on my right, see an imaginary Sasquatch cross the road, swerve car dramatically into on-coming lane, semi hits car, my friend’s top half flies through the front windscreen, my head smashes against the wheel, we are both killed instantly. More similar stories with more depressing endings (that is, people surviving), check out this Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Everyone-has-a-vodka-incident/111809188842575) that has anyone that isn’t me detailing their pathetic recollections of getting so drunk they vomited everywhere, were left physically crippled, knocked themselves out trying to hit a cop, or threw up in the back of their dad’s car from the massive intake of Vodka to kill their non-existing unborn baby, (yeah, these stories are on the page). You guys are so fucking hardcore for being involved in some of the lamest stories I’ve ever heard of physical self-deprecation that’s supposed to be funny or awe-inspiring. I’ll write a fucking book about it. Drunk people are the worst. Or to be more correct people who have ever been drunk are the worst. You should hang your heads in shame for having sex with every of your friends’ boy/girlfriends that can be excused for your “alcoholism”* (*social retardation). People think when they are drunk their actions have immunity because they aren’t in the right mind-set and their characteristics completely change. Being drunk doesn’t change you into a totally different, more vocal, more violent asshole, it just invokes the assholism that is already present inside of you and makes it more public. God-damn, I hate drunk people. I don’t want to hear about your shitty drunk story unless someone died or you encountered a dinosaur. Fuck drunk people, and fuck anorexics. They’re two of my most hated minority groups, and now people can be both at the same time to piss me off twice as much, ergo the only way to make me go Super Saiyan 2. Young people are getting too clever with their mental conditions these days; I’m predicting we’ll have school-shooting addiction, text-message anxiety, video-game eroticism, iDepressed, 3-D Blues, and online AIDS. If you’re going to have the indecency to make yourself throw up like a drunk cunt, at least have the decency of a bulimic to do it in the toilet.

Teenagers should be forced to smoke.

Why can’t people under the age of 18 smoke cigarettes or any other fine versions of tobacco? Apart from lacking the cognitive sensibility towards adult-orientated actions that is immediately convalesced at the ownership of an ID card, there is no reason that teenagers shouldn’t be allowed to smoke. Not that’s it’s stopping them; these days, and every other day that has existed, I see more teenagers smoking than adults. They may not be legally allowed to buy cigarettes or smoke them in public, but they manage to acquire them anyway and are free to smoke them without curious authority figures intervening in their unfairly illegal loitering.

I don’t just think teenagers should be allowed to smoke, I think they should be forced to. The physical effects of smoking will be far more evident on teenagers than adults. Most teenagers exercise, whether it’s extra-curricular at school in better hopes of getting into a top-banana university without having the required education and receiving tax rebates, biking to one’s house to and fro because they don’t have licenses yet, or mandatory forced Physical Education at school with more focus on ‘Physical’ than ‘Education’. If teenagers smoked and continued with these arduous activities, the exhausting effects of smoking would be felt pretty soon and soon enough they would give it up, even before the nicotine plants itself in the most vulnerable, softest segment of the brain. But adults can never really feel the negative effects of smoking because they never exercise. They have cars to take them anywhere they want, their sports only exercise the fingers through Tolstoy-length accounts of  the follies of adult-hood and through highly unspecific comments made about individuals on Facebook expressing disapproval with their highly unspecific comments made about individuals, and most adults lose weight via puking so exercise is rarely a routine in the life of an adult.

My theory, which I have legally patented, is tried and true. Most people I knew who smoked in high school have given it up completely just a few years before or after graduating and everyone in high school who were all like “ewww, smokers are gross, I’d never put that disgusting stuff into my body LOL” now smoke like they’re in Mad Men. Your parents will always tell you two things; “always give it a try” and “never try drugs”. People should definitely try cigarettes, but only at a vulnerable age, when they are at their most physically dependant. People say young adults are bullet-proof, and it’s true, but it’s only until they reach mid-life that the exit wounds start to show. A whole decade of heavy smoking will most certainly bring about you cancer, STIs, sneezing fits, sexy nightmares, smoker’s cough and smoker with lung cancer’s cough, so you might as well smoke yourself to death, rather than trying to recuperate any possible free years you have in your life peeing blood into a plastic bag and being the only person in the hospital whose family members and friends aren’t afraid to chastise about your disease. Smoke yourself to heaven. It’s like what Kurt Vonnegut said, it’s a classy way to commit suicide.

In fact, I’m gonna take up smoking now, as AN ADULT, but give it up and be subject to praise by my friends and colleagues. That pisses me off. Giving up certain habits is a good thing, but no-one should be congratulated for it. Just a mere “ehh, good for you, douchebag” should suffice. I don’t get people that give up smoking, crack, heroin, or being a paedophile and they get praised lapped on them and people think they’re the hottest shit in the world. Giving up smoking is a popular way to accumulate unwarranted  praise and I’m fucking sick of it. You know what’s better than giving up smoking; not smoking in the first place. Nobody’s ever said to me “hey, man, that’s so great that you never decided to smoke. Way to go, B. Awesome stuff! That makes you the greatest person ever. I just want to hug you. You’re my favourite customer”. But no, to achieve that amount of praise I’d have to degrade myself by smoking, deteriorating my physical, mental, and psychosexual well-being, be a really unruly cunt to everyone for no reason and then when I give it up, I will announce it to absolutely everyone I know and I wil do so through a variety of modes, such as via Facebook, email, MySpace, tumblr, Reddit, Twitter, text message, over the phone, fax, and least of all in person.

This will be my new year’s resolution, since my new year’s resolution to quit masturbation didn’t last very long at all since I actually wanked myself into the new year. I will take up smoking for a while, then give it up, and then like every single person who ever existed in the history of the universe that quit smoking, I will start smoking again once all the praise directed at me wears out and I will repeat this process at least eleven times. And I will counter against any long-term physical effects such as lung cancer by becoming bulimic. Light up!

Charlie Sheen rapes a baby in the mouth

No other celebrity has garnered this much publicity and attention in the past month more than Charlie Sheen and now he has finally out-done himself. The Two and a Half Men star is now alleged to have raped a baby in the mouth.

Above: Charlie Sheen

The event apparently took place on Monday evening at 5:30pm at an undisclosed location, although it is being reported that it took place in the male bathroom of Charlie’s rehabilitation centre in Los Angelos. How Charlie managed to get the three month old is still being investigated, but Charlie’s lawyer, Ed Meyer, is not so optimistic about how this is going to pan out, especially considering his previous shenanigans.

“I am not too optimistic about how this is going to conclude,” says Meyer. “Especially considering my client’s previous actions over the past two and a half months”. Legal action is expected to be taken against Sheen by the baby’s parents, who have yet to be identified.

Sheen was questioned about the event as he left his estate in Malibu, but he had nothing to say. He cannot remain quiet about this forever, as this may be his most controversial stunt of his career, even when compared to all his ramblings, interviews, and general eccentricity he has presented recently.

Two and a Half Men airs Friday nights on channel Nine.

Just another single shit-head complaining about Valentine’s Day

Only joking. I’m not going to complain about Valentine’s Day. The reason being is because I’m not in a relationship. It’d be like me complaining about the hassles of Hanukkah because I’m not Jewish although I won’t say that because analogies suck. Analogies are like having your dick sucked by a kettle in zero gravity while you jog 400m at a sports carnival at someone’ else’s school, in your underwear, in a dream. And being in a relationship on Valentine’s Day is like having your wallet eaten by a crocodile and that wallet was made of crocodile skin, and then you die from the irony. Which is strange because only hipsters have crocodile skin wallets and they could perhaps be able to handle the irony.

Although Valentine’s Day makes billions and billions of dollars every year, I still think it would be able to turn a better profit if we changed the silly season to a much more butt-hurt and broken-heart festivity that is, in spirit, completely the opposite of the day we have now. Imagine the sales of bullets with specially carved names in them??! Greeting card sales will soar through the roof because it’d be the only time of the year you could write in them what you really think of that asshole/slut you’re sending it to. I don’t think I know many people that actually like love. Most people hate love, like they would with any other disease. It’s even predicted that in ten years time there will be more divorces than marriages across the globe. That means more single ladies!!! Hell yeah, single llaaadddddiiieessss!!! drop your bastard children at the doors, we’re gonna tear up this dance-floor with our misandry and self-worth hyperboles!! WOOOOOOO!!!!

Not dissimilar to any other woman, I enjoy being single. It means I can eat ice-cream in my underwear, not ever worry about my eye-lines, remain truthfully opinionated, cry myself to sleep, poop in the back-yard and I have no mounting pressure of satisfying my future wife on the holiest of all days. The only person I need to satisfy on any day is myself, and I usually can’t be bothered doing that. So for my Valentine’s Day this year, I shall celebrate it like I do every year; jerking off in front of a strobe light to the tunes of Nine Inch Nails remixes.

Unlike every other holiday, people are now sick of Valentine’s Day. Love is dead. It’s been replaced with sex. There should be a Sex Day. I propose that Sex Day should replace Valentine’s Day because it’s way more awesome, would score a larger profit, and would result in a smaller number in those of the forever alone variety, since opening your genitals to someone is easier than opening up your heart. People love sex. Most people love the fuck out of sex. Sex is everywhere. Absolutely everywhere and everything is sexualised. Commercials, the media, religion, kids’ shows, French fries, pornography, carpentry. The world revolves around sex. If there was no sex, we’d all have to resort to actual human relationships and healthy and selfless expressions of love-making. The world would be a terrible place! But until that day when another one of my brilliant ideas comes to fruition (and it will), we’re stuck with a hallow, commercialised, diluted, saturated, corporate-organised, post-modern, conformist holiday that’s not even a real holiday that makes everyone who’s single or in a relationship feel miserable. Fuck Easter!

The New You: An Informative and Infunnative Guide to Losing Weight and Becoming a New and Much Better Person

A new year; a new start. By now, some people have just decided upon their New Year’s resolutions, and all other people have already broken them. But that doesn’t mean you have to wait an entire year before you can get back on the path to becoming the new you. The concept of a year is derived from our handling and organising of time to sustain our economy and other certain conveniences. Despite our massive understanding of time, it is still a glorious creation of humans and does not exist. All that exists are atoms and light that stay in place until moved. And from this light, you appear to be quite a few atoms. If you find yourself on this page, that means that you must be in need of a physical re-birth. An inner body cleansing. A spiritual enema, to wash away the issues associated with your single identity. You may not believe yourself when you say you don’t need this, regardless of how you may have ended up on this page, but that’s the “beauty” of this Infunnative Guide; it’s universal, it speaks to all because no matter how relaxed and comfortable you are with your one body, I hope that this guide can still provide re-assurance of that opinion or raise concern over the oddities about your temple that you never noticed! So let’s dive right into this thoroughly researched and carefully pointed excuse for self-satisfaction via mass deprecation of others, and hopefully by the end of all this torment, physical and emotional, you’ll become a brand new person!

Admitting the Problem: Like with any other debilitating issue or disease, the first step to overcoming the epidemic is to admit to one’s own defeat in trying not to succumb. Now that the condition has attached itself to you and is beginning to eat it’s way through your cells, leaving debris of deterioration and self-hatred and societal contradictions, admitting it’s existence will paradoxically worsen the condition, and thus later on, perhaps months or even years later, will eventually cure it completely, hopefully not after real diseases affect your body.

Peer pressure: It’s like Jesus once said “Better to have peer pressure than to not have peers”. And sometimes those loving best friends of yours will cease their seemingly-constant glorifications of you for just a very brief moment to bring concern over your weight and body image. Though of course, this is only what really great friends will do, and your friends aren’t actually your friends. They’re just using you for your money, or sex, or guns, or jobs, or companionship. Not to worry, you can still provoke their true reactions about your weight. They ARE thinking it and THEY are talking about it behind your back, and they ARE disgusted. But humans as you call them only speak 5 per cent of their thoughts every day. Who knows what your supposed friends are thinking about you? Some of the things they may be thinking of which might prevent them from bringing your slabs of fat into the discussion may be:

“Maybe he/she is still overcoming from Christmas dinner. That ham can stay in your intestines for months.”

“He/she might have had botched surgery which resulted in a bloated stomach. It’d be pretty insensitive of me to discuss it”

“Maybe he/she is pregnant?”

“It might just be a wire.”

Your friends JUST DON’T KNOW. But unlike admitting to suicidal tendencies, you can’t just keep these paranoid emotions bottled up. You have to discover the truth! But you have to be subtle, otherwise your friends will just lie to you, as they always do. Using a different approach than the one your feeble brain could summon might be a more successful way of getting out your friend’s true feelings. You could say to your friends:

“Does this dress/blouse make me look fat?”

It’s an old saying, but it still works. You don’t bring attention to yourself, you divert it to something else. But nonetheless, your friends answers will still be revealing. If they say “yes”, then you still belong on this page. But if they said “no, it looks very lovely on you”, there’s no mention of weight or not. Perhaps they think you look lovely in that dress, despite the horrid obesity you possess.

“Should I get the grilled-cheese toastie, or shold I get the low-fat yogurt with a side of salad?”

Attention once again is diverted away from you. If your friends suggest you opt with the low-fat yogurt and salad, then they are certainly making hints for you to drop a meal or two a day and to stick to this Infunnative Guide. If they suggest the grilled-cheese toastie, it could possibly be a sarcastic in-joke amongst them that if you were to ingest one more meal, your gargatuam stomach just might not be able to take it anymore and just simple explode everywhere, creating quite the spectacle and resulting in cheers and high-fives from your friends and shocked acts of vomiting amongst other restaurant goers. Speaking of my favourite past-time…

“I really need to throw up”

For normal people, presenting this concern across friends will result in them highly recommending that you keep the food inside of you to be properly digested and so forth, and if the meal does erupt from you after all, to eat it as that food is not going to waste and you need all the energy you can get if you’re going to survive tomorrow morning’s public orgy for RussianVoyeur Magazine. However, if your friends mention that maybe you should get the food out of you, it’s most definitely a sign that perhaps your stomach is as big enough as it is. Perhaps the reason for your illness was from a massive amount of overeating or overdrinking and even your own body is telling you you need to heed advice from Neonman’s Informative and Infunnative Guide to Losing Weight, which you are reading right now and must continue to read now that we have come to the definite conclusion, by yourself, your friends, your body, and most importantly myself, that you don’t need to settle for this. You can be healthy and physically attractive in all cultures if you ever learn to respect your body for once. Lettuce, oh-ho-ho, venture now to the two easy steps that will certainly, definitely and absolutely result in a new, better and more You you.

First step: The first step (if the previous two were just prologues) is so simple, why didn’t you think of it?? All you have to do is to eat healthy. You know that food that comes from the ground, or is picked off trees, and has little to no other dangerous additions put in them? Eat them, they’re healthy. That’s why they’re there. Many of you may not not know this, but those foods are natural. Human bodies are ALSO natural, so it makes sense for something as natural as our bodies to consume something as natural as fruit and vegetables and slabs of tofu meat. But of course, these foods are foods, and food will continue to expand your stomach and lift your weight up. You can’t expect to put something inside of you to make your lighter. Don’t be ridiculous!!! The best course of action is to just eat as little as possible. Perhaps nothing at all. It is possible to survive eating nothing, as long as you’re still getting the energy integral to your body. Just head down to your local doctor or vet and get them to inject you with a sufficient amount of nutrients (but not too many. No need to be greedy) and you’ll be able to go about your days without having to resort to time-wasting activities like eating or puking. And I know what you’re thinking; “but Lord Neonman, sire, I like on every Friday and Saturday night to go out with “friends” and get completely and utterly sloshed to the point that I need my stomach pumped, but my sister’s boyfriend angrily assures everyone otherwise because he just wants to get home and play Black Ops while he’s still drunk, so they end up leaving me in the darkened alley-way outside that gay club covered in my own vomit and my underwear down to my ankles. How may I go about still reducing my senses with my untrusting friends out at ludicrous and dangerous times of the night without putting on any weight?” A-ha-ha-ha, I’m glad I asked me that, and that’s a simple problem to overcome as well. Alcohol is simply a drug used to lower one’s standards and integrity, so simply replace alcohol with drugs that have similar effects. Crack, cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, and any other legal highs that clubs and pubs would be more than happy to allow you to smoke/snort/inject in their vicinities. So with your energy and sober levels respectively sustained and abused, you should just start feeling those pounds wash out from the end of you in not time. But that’s not enough. That’s not nearly enough. You’re only half-way through the two-step process, so there’s still plenty of hard-working progress to get through (I assume hard-working because everything must be hard-work for fat-asses like you).

Second (and Last) step:  With all those kilojoules and LSD coursing through your system, there’s got to be something you can do to let this unwarranted waste leak out from you. And all you’ve got to do to allow that is to run. Run. Whenever you want to walk, run. Whenever you need to drive somewhere, run. Whenever you have sex, run. Run ten times a day. Run right now and back. Feeling weightless already? Feels like you’re on the moon! All you got to do is run. Run away from it all. Run away from all the bullshit in your life. Run away from your life. Run away from your job. Run away from your kids. Run away from your estranged whore of a husband. Run … to the end … run …… until you feel those kilos just flying off! It’ll be hard at first, since you need to move more weight. But if you’re determined, if you plan ahead your distance, stopping points, vomiting points, and the method of getting back home (I usually just get a cab) then soon enough you would have lost so much weight that running will no longer count as an exercise, so you’ll then have to resort to other, more hazardous means of exercising to eliminate the last perceivable amount of fat on your disgusting shrine of a body. And once that’s gone, you’ll most likely lapse into a semi-conscious coma of spiritual enlightenment, where you’ll experience a nirvana so awesome and so frightening, your will produce waste from the wrong orifices. You’ll fall for what will seem like an eternity until you see the ass of God, and you will fall into his rectum and proceed to pass through the inner anatomy of Him, taking with you the disease and destruction caused in His inner linings, and you will be regurgitated out from the other side, the upper side, and He shall feel cleansed for the first time since the birth of man and thus begins another four billion years of building torture and emotional agony. But at least he can feel pure, if only for a time so small, it cannot be perceived as time.

And with that, you should feel, smell and most importantly look like a new you! I bet your friends won’t even be able to recognise you. But at least this time, they’ll be able to tell you that you are their friend and not have to lie. It’ll be like putting on a much more popular and much better person’s face over the top of your own. Or should I say, their body, for your body is an external expression of yourself. Your body is who you are and what defines you. And you don’t want your body telling people that you are an uncharacteristic, unopinionated, societal pawn whom resists to the traditional and commercial modern-day theories of beauty, do you? So practise and practise and practise these brilliant methods that I alone came up with and nobody else had ever thought this brilliant ideas up before and they are all mine and I hold copyright on all them and soon enough you too will become a famed trumpet player who frequently boasts his talents at Carnegie Hall.

Next month, just in times for Valentine’s Day, Neonman takes you ladies, and funny fellas, through the art and deceit that is make-up. I’ll teach you all how to cover up your undermining hereditary characteristics with the aid of chemical-laden cosmetics to further fulfilling your never-ending spiral of becoming the new and better you.

Women and young boys are ruining the world

For those who are paranoid about having their jobs unexpectedly taken away by immigrants, there is now an even scarier and smellier foe abound; young boys. These gremlins have already begun their pursuit to overtake and destroy the world and to negate the qualities of growing old because soon enough being an adult will become a moot concept.

We can first see the collapse of our culture by identifying the world’s biggest star in the music world currently; Justin Bieber.

Aged 46.

Master Bieber demonstrates zero noticeable talent concerning musical ability, or dance choreography, or sensible, but appropriately provocative hairstyle. However, he does prove the more important musician attributes, including an inflated self-ego, infidelity, and a two-figure IQ.

But this is just the field of artistic creation, it has no actual impact on our society at all. True, I suppose it doesn’t really matter that children can be artists as well. Picasso was developing photo-realistic paintings before he hit 10, and back then they looked even better than photos. Too bad he got lazy and started doodling child-like images in his adult life; how post-ironic of him. But he at least had talent in his youth and used it for the good of the Earth, but it’s just too bad that if he had never been born, it wouldn’t make a god-damn difference at all because he was an artist, much like Justin Bieber, and neither of them ever contributed to society.

But if there’s any profession more important than being a lazy artist, it’s a critic of such art. Critics, for films in specific, are very important because it is their duty to filter out the garbage art and entertainment that continues to try and protrude our lives and make us ill and stupid in the brain. If it weren’t for these important film critics, Transformers 2 would’ve ended up making $835,276,689 at the cinematic box-office. The profession of being a film critic is certainly taken very, very, very, very, probably seriously and not anyone can be a film critic. It takes many years, if not decades, of learning and teaching yourself to subscribe to the formal opinion and to strip yourself of emotional reaction when watching a film so you can judge it upon an intellectual level so it makes your reactions describable with words, rather than thoughts and feelings. So it’s understandable that I was absolutely furious when I discovered ‘Lights, Camera, Jackson!’ (better known as LCJ, or LL Cool Jacks), who is, get this ohmigod, an ELEVEN YEAR OLD FILM CRITIC. What the balls?! What was I just talking about when I said that reviewing a film involves reaching into your own memory-hole and producing a whole life-time of experiences integral to appropriate reaction to the film that has a particular target audience that may exclude certain age demographics, mostly those underneath a certain age??!

LLCJ reviews Best and Worst 4th of July Fucks.

Remember the last time you took your friend to see a film, and he overdosed on an unhealthy mix of cocaine and DMT and as he was being taken away to the ambulance, he was blurting out repeatedly something he liked or disliked about the film, waving his arms around and stretching his mouth out like a total madcunt? That never happened to you?! What about a family member? Anyway, that’s what LLCJ is like. Like all eleven year olds, he can’t seem to sit still, he can’t talk without getting all Italian on us, he can’t bring his voice volume below 260db, and he can’t review films. Unlike all eleven year olds, he’s won an Emmy, he has a segment reviewing films for a Morning Show for those who’s lives are cheap enough that they feel the need to be awake in the morning, he has pet peeves, his job is hindered by the MPAA, and he … in general … just has … a creepy, adult-like quality to him. Many are predicting him to be a total fuckup when he grows up, realising that he was used as a child and all his college money was taken by his parents and used on their divorce attorneys.

For those who are gleefully awaiting his downfall are currently enjoying his presence in the film criticism business. Who are these totally fucked up people? Why, they are women of course. No man actually wants to see their favourite recently-released movie reviewed by some twerp who finds the film too confusing and contradictorily relies too heavily on plot exposition through dialogue. But women on the other hand are hardly interested in the intellect or interest of one’s  personality, whether they be a film critic, or a guy next door, or guy next door who isn’t actually a neighbour. What women are concerned with when they initiate their “Interest with a Male of the Human Species” is the appearances. Since women have heightened eye-sight than men, but the rest of their sense are significantly inferior, they react almost soley based off looks. That’s why they wear glorious dresses that cut off their breathing, buy expensive jewellery they will disregard in just a few weeks, fuck men with chisiled features who don’t care about them, listen to music by handsome little boys who sound like a penis queefing, and fill in their cultural desires by taking in the film advice of a kid who’s only just old enough to see these films he’s reviewing, and probably isn’t even watching the films anyway because he shook his hand so violently when Leonardo deCaprio farted, that his Jaffa fell to the front of the cinema and he screamed in agony and raced down to retrieve his lost candy, only to discover a whole treasure cove of lost candy, which prompted him to squeal like an eleven year old in a candy store, which annoyed the rest of the cinema-goers and he was escorted from the film and ended up making his review without even having seen most of the film, or at least the last half-second.

LLCJ is certainly a person constructed for women. Only women get up that early enough in the morning to watch his show. Only women would value sights over personality depth (note LLCJ’s red hair, earning him sympathy points). The same goes for Justin Beaver, take a look at the comments on his YouTube videos. The people calling him a faggot sure aren’t women, otherwise they’d be calling him a lesbian. And I doubt any of the posts like “~~//omigodomigod sooooooooo cuteeeeeeee justin bibier i wan to marri him <3<3<3″ are coming from this guy.

Speaking of which, there is a slight pedophilic feeling to all this, albeit it is innocent since we are referring to women. If an adult woman had sex with a minor, I’d just be like “… …. … Nicccce!” Women aren’t into hunks like they used to be; they’d rather fuck a twelve year old. I don’t know, maybe being a pedophile is what excites them. Women can’t have straight-up sex anymore now. Nope, no more “inserting penis into vagina and thrust until ejaculate”, that’s far too boring. There must be a child, animal, food, or gremlin involved, and I’m sure soon enough we’re going to have to introduce new laws concerning sex to compensate for women’s recent sexual ennui. The sort of male idols produced for the pleasure of women has seen a certain decline since the invention of modern culture.

What do you see a decline in? I’m not sure myself, but I sure as shit see an increase in total faggotry. Female eye-candy for men on the other hand.

Still good!

So in ultimate conclusion, women are helping young boys to ruin the world. Women simply can’t comprehend the talent one may have, instead they focus on their appearances and prefer pube-less little boys to menly men. Us men initially weren’t worried about it, although I believe the time has now come to panic. Soon enough, our greatest scientists, astronauts, doctors, artists, gynaecologists, engineers, and architects will be qualified based solely on how cute they appear, perhaps in a cliched costume of their designated profession. It disgusts me to think that this could happen, but we must stand strong. We must fight this tyranny. We must stem the tide of talent-less meecrob in our society. We must stamp it out, literally, before we become suffocated in a bucket of young boy’s puke that was initiated by women who certainly don’t know any better. As a feminist, I say us men take back what’s rightfully ours, the whole world.

Oprah Winfrey is coming to my house.

“We all can’t wait to go to Neonman’s house”

The God of the world, Oprah Winfrey, is coming to DAAAAYUUUNNN UNNNDAAAAHHH and she’s bringing her accolade of fans and stalkers with her. Of all the third world countries Oprah decided to travel to, I’m glad she decided to come to ours. Hopefully she’ll be bringing a few billion dollars with her in her charity purse because the poverty here has gotten worse since Economic Crisis 3000. Most of the citizens here in Australia don’t even own an iPad; how are we supposed to keep up being hipster country of the world when we are unable to finger-paint all over our favourite web-sites? A few of us Australians don’t even have TiVo, so we are restraiend to watch our favourite television shows when they are on. Us Aussies never get the chance to make the decisions, we’re constantly being raped by the government and we’re being TOLD to enjoy it. It’s ridonkulous.

Speaking of rape, Oprah announced to her audience on some date I can’t be bothered looking up (sometime in 2005) that the entire audience had been bought a ticket to Australia, as well as other travel expenses such as hotel rooms, saucy in-room films, and optional hookers. Let me just clear one thing up first; this is just the studio audience that happened to be on the show at the time, not her entire viewing audience, otherwise the amount of money spent on cleaning up the celebratory wall-to-wall vomit from the guests’ tour of the Sydney Opera House would be far too pricey to compensate out with the money gained by the publicity for Australia itself which will convince lower class families from American deciding what they need is a trip to Australia. It’s an ingenious idea on behalf of Australia (that’s me!!) to invite the Queen of all that is Holy and Living to take a break from the eighty-nine endorsements she must sign to kick her feet up in Australia, stay in the hotel room the whole time, and not come out at all. It’s integral to the publicity stunt this is that she does that; too much exposure to the Australian paparazzi will make her stale bread and our media will have to resort to other news-stories of vacuous engagement.

I will even invite her and her (literal) bandwagon to come over to my house. My house has recently become quite the landmark since I raped and killed seventeen six-graders in my dungeon; another successful publicity stunt. Oprah and her followers should come over to mine and I will provide some snacks, beers, and DMT. It would be good if they could bring some of their own as well, or if not, a little strap to help out. I hear Oprah is quite the keen eater and loves to indulge in her foods aplenty. She loves the company of many a low-fat food such as mountains of fruit (especially grapes and pomegranate), dairy products, scientifically-proven low-fat snack bars, and glucose-free meat. They should all come around to my awesome house (that I’m staying in with my parents, but just ignore them, eh) about an hour after I wake up and watch me play Modern Warfare 2 for a while, then maybe we can all catch to the train to JB Hi-Fi and browse through indie. I don’t have many mattresses so staying over would not be possible. Oprah is more than welcome to crash out on my couch, and I will be kind enough to provide a blanket for her, though she might not need it as it gets quite warm during this time of year. Or maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know, the weather in Perth changes every three hours anyway. I’ll keep the blanket next to her.

I wish the best for Oprah and her band of goons during their trip to the forty-sixth greatest country on the whole planet. I suggest they all do as much sight-seeing as they can, view all of our great landmarks, get into as many fights with those of ethnicity as possible, and relish in our courteous behaviour, our gracious hospitality, our respectable gang war-fare. I’m sure she will have a grand time in our six-star hotels, our no. 1 limousines, our luxurious and exotic spa treatments. I can’t wait for her arrival and I really do wish her the very best for her and her lucky fans when they spend the few precious hours they have in only the coast-line areas of our lovely country and I thank them for this terrific publicity and for making our obscure country heard across the globe. I just hope she doesn’t have to deal with any of these folks on her way in, as she does look a little tanned.

Wipeout is my favourite porn show

At the moment, television is going through a pretty awesome revolution. Free-to-air television is looking more and more like cable television every-day, with the amount of channels in Perth has more than doubled thanks to the advent of digital television; instead of five whoring channels, we now have eleven channels, with the distribution of whoring much less contained. This is great for me because I’ve always dreamed of lounging in front of my TV with endless possiblities of what to watch. For me, that is the essence of life, and it makes sense. Constant entertainment is what sounds good to me, and isn’t that the meaning of life? Forget the children I’ve got clawing at me, all twelve of them can die of starvation. Forget my family and friends, they can all can die of starvation too. The only friends I’ll need are Kramer, Kessler, Krestler, Kruler, Kranker, Kracker, and Krunklenutt.

But of course, this is only a fantasy that I’m yet to obtain in reality; I still do not have cable television. I can tell because I still can’t get porn on my free-to-air television. Sure, I could always stay up past 1am and see some Korean woman get raped on SBS (sometimes for real, but they blur out the good spots anyway). Overall, there hasn’t been much fappable material on FTA television, even with the amount of channels doubling. Cor, I would’ve expected digital television to allow at least one channel that had nothing but explicit pornography on it all day and night long and had an easy-to-bypass parent lock code.

Fortunately, it seems that there is indeed a porn show on one of the more nostalgia-looking channels. And it’s on during dinner time! And there’s no nudity in it! But pornography surely doesn’t need nudity just to make it sexy. What, are you the sort of person who can’t eye themselves in the mirror, otherwise they’ll suddenly start jerking off at their own image? I know I am. What a terrible condition to have, it’s pretty difficult avoiding reflective sheets when I’m at the butcher’s shops. But back onto Wipeout, it’s a show that consists of very willing and excited contestants partaking in a variety of activities that the audience wish they were in. Sound familiar? Even the way the show has been filmed has an early 90s-videotape quality to it that makes any appearing coin-slots seem evern more alluring and disgustingly erotic. The night-time activities look like they’re being lit by multiple coloured candles; they probably would use those, but they’d be at risk of being put out by the water or the contestants excite fluid (maybe they should make that a challenge).

Not to say that I find myself sexually participating whilst this TV is playing, however my sexual systems do go into overdrive whenever I see a girl covered in mud flail to her supposed death falling off the great big red balls of doom.

Same goes for the male contestants that fall off the same balls, but my knowing filter prevents any such sexual reactions from achieving success (for I hate men, I love WOMEN!!). Seeing a woman allow herself to walk across a small platform with the danger of being punched the fuck out by one of the many boxing gloves invokes the same sort of anticipation as is seeing a girl with her gob wide open with the expectation of having most of it filled with the man-juice of a silent type (it reserves the excitement if he can’t tell her when he’s gonna arrive).  I find it disgusting and I wish to have this filth removed from my air-waves because I am entitled as a cranky old cunt to have the majority voting power in regards to what material will pollute the air-waves. How ’bout a good ol’ scat show instead, where the under-12 contestants must eat the most amount of human poo to win the love of their own parents. Now that’s a show I could get behind, literally. Not like Wipeout, which is disgusting. Even the name sounds pornographic. I think I was in one of the Wipeout films back in the ’50s. It was pretty classy back then, but now it’s disgusting. Filled with the most wretched of atrocious acts, and done inter-racially as well. Now that’s the cherry on top that I can’t stand. People should only have sex with people of their own colour; it makes sense. I mean, you’d never see me having sex with a green person, eh? Even though I’ve done it before, but that’s beside the point.

Anyway, no, before you ask, I haven’t seen Crash Course yet and I have no intention to, nor would I want to watch a porno of two cars having sex (though I have heard great things about Cronenberg’s Crash). Wipeout is where it’s at for me; it’s my favourite porn show on TV, even though it’s the only one, but it’s also the only one I need, for the only porn show I can physically put up with is the great Wipeout. Now, excuse me, Wipeout just happens to be on now, and I must go Wipeout myself.

Guitar Hero 4: Sweet, nearly here!

Wow, I haven’t been here in a while, probably beause I’ve been busy being not busy with exams. Speaking of exams, Guitar Hero 4 (World Tour) is going to be released soon and I guess I’m buying it. I’ve put a pre-order in a Target and I get the whole bunch of crap for $280, which is pretty good given that that’s how much it costs for just the drum-set for Rock Band. According to Wikipedia, Rock Band is due out in Aus October the 12th, or something; a few weeks before GH4 does, which I suppose has been Harmonix’s masterplan all along.

Remakes

As an Australian, I haven’t seen the new Swedish vampire-horror film, Let the Right One In, but according to numerous sources, it’s good. It won’t be another fifty years til it’s released in Australia, yet already an American remake of it has been announced and will be directed by Matt Reeves (Cloverfield). Though apparently Reeves says he will not be remaking the movie, but simply adapting the book again for American audiences. Riiiiight! It just so happens that you were going to take on this book right after it had been already done and been claim to wonderful reviews and praise. Or maybe American audiences can’t be bothered reading subtitles in films (see: Quarantine).

Another remake in the works is that of the Korean cult classic Oldboy, about a man trapped in a room for 15 years before being immediately released and he must find out who did this to him with the help of his female sidekick. This remake sounds a lot more hopeful than the one above since Will Smith has revealed interest in playing the main character of the remake. It wouldn’t be so bad, since Smith has proved how well he can play distraught, isolated characters, like that of the last man on earth in I Am Legend.

Of all people, Steven Spielberg has announced he will direct this remake, odd given the original’s horrific contents. Still, he can prove he can approach graphic content with maturity and respect (ie Saving Private Ryan), it’s just that I know Spielberg makes a lot of family films, but not like this.

Building a bridge

So, yeah, I haven’t been on here for a while, mainly it’s because it’s the internet equivelant of talking to a brick wall, but since I’m a mad, mad bastard, I’m going to keep doing it (the only thing that keeps me from shooting up the school. That, and not having access to any fire-arms).
Speaking of which, I am now at university. Actually, I have flown to Europe and I am taking a very prestigous course at MIT. Well, not really. I’m doing MIT, but it’s a bridging course from year 12 failures to instant university. As my friend pointed out, what would be the point of trying hard at school if you just just spend a year doing this easy course and then getting into university. Sure, I’ve got a few expendable years on my back.
I’ve just finished my first trimester (wich is split up into two. I don’t know, dude …) and I actually passed both Comms 1 and IT 1, getting 60-something per cent in both. Holy fuck, what a great feeling it is to actually pass something again. Haven’t had that feeling in a while since I beat Free Bird on Expert.
After finally having a holiday after about thirteen weeks of MIT, I’m now back doing two completely different courses; Comms 2 and IT 2. My Comms 2 class is sweet, only because we watch a film every week, and my IT 2 class only has five people in it, so it’d be pretty embarrassing if one person failed in that (especially if that one person was me).
So, this year has been pretty laid-back so far, which is great because then I can get my ass kicked next year when I go to uni and have a whole bunch more work to do. Though perhaps next year, for the first time in my life, I may just get to learn about something I am actually interested in.

Also, I think I’m going to start posting about my dreams from now on, since I do it every night and they are far more interesting than my normal life. More to come, but now, here’s Fred with the weather.

Review: I Stand Alone

I finally got to see this film today. I’ve become a huge fan of Gaspar Noe since I saw Irreversible earlier this year, which quickly became one of my favourite movies ever. So now I’ve been trying to see as many of his films as possible, though I’m kind of disappointed to see he’s only got one other (and a few shorts, and feature coming out “Enter the Void”).

If there’s one word that would describe this film, it would be; damn. I mean, damn, this film is totally damned. But it’s also brilliant, and close to being a masterpiece. I Stand Alone is very similar to Taxi Driver; a man (this time living in France) is sick of the world and the people that pollute it, and is driven suicidal, but stops himself because of the love he has for a girl.

A lot of the film is narrated by this man (simply known as “the butcher”), and we are invited into his thoughts on this cruel world, and what he thinks of all those that surround him. It’s very uncensored, and keeps up the pace of the film, despite most of the shots being very static (in contrast to the roller-coaster ride that is Irreversible).

This could easily be a thriller film; the tension builds as the butcher gets more and more frustrated, and we longer know what he is going to do next. At one point in the film, a title card tells the audience they have 30 seconds to leave the screening. That was certainly more frightening to see than what actually happens.

I Stand Alone is a terrific character study of a impoverished man, sick of his country. The film is incredibly pessimistic, but only with this pessimism can you have an ending so suprisingly uplifting. My rating; 9.2/10

Social masturbation- not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I was brought to this thread on the Facepunch forums the other day on “Social Masturbation”, which the OP states is male masturbation while watching porn with various other males in the room, who are all also masturbating and you “feed off each others erotic energy”.  Now, to me, that sounds gay. That very much is homosexual. It is a homosexual activity intended for males who are homosexuals, or at least bisexual. Now, y’know, nothing wrong with that. Just a bunch of guys, getting together, having a good time, jerking off with each other. Sounds like an evening. The thing is is that this is as I’ve said a very homosexual thing to do, but the OP says it isn’t gay, “other than admiring each others erections”.

Now, in defence of the OP, the stimulation of the very male groups’ eroticism stems from the porn (or should I say, the direction their peni are facing) and this porn could be very heterosexual. However, I believe, and this may shock you, that masturbation is quite similar to sex. First of all, you need a partner. For masturbation, your partner is your stimulation, usually porn. If this is girl porn, then that means you are straight. Unless by girl porn I mean it is intended for girls, which means it would be full of guys instead, which means it would actually make you gay. But OP is apparently straight, so he would view straight porn (which is… I don’t know, it has only gals in it). So OP is heterosexual. But what if a guy joined in masturbating, just like the post is stating, but both men are fixtated on the heterosexual porn; is this gay?

Now again in OP’s defence, it could be said that whenever any male goes to masturbate alone, they are not really masturbating alone as there has to be, somewhere in the world, another man masturbating. However, what differentiates these two situations is that males masturbating alone try their damned hardest to tell themselves that the world outside their furry fantasy does not exist, and there is no room-mate in the other room playing WoW, or no neighbour next door playing cricket with his kids. Males masturbating alone do not feed off the erotic energy of anyone else, especially if they are in the room, and especially if they are male. Unless of course, the person is homosexual.

Now to relate this back to sex, what if OP was having sex with a woman. Would he, an alleged heterosexual, let a guy jerk off over his partner’s head while he admired his erection? Does that make him gay? OP also states that “The fact that I’ve made jerking off a social activity has erased the feeling of shame and loneliness I usually feel sitting in front of my computer like a loser”. I suppose this guy has to accept the fact that sitting in front of your computer and jerking off is not a shameful or lonely thing to do, and that all males do it. At the same time. But at least in different vicinities, and completely oblivious to the fact. If you put these people in the same room, it would certainly invoke a completely different and unerotic mood amongst those males. They would, if straight, not want to further participate. Unless they were viewing straight porn. But there would also be other straight guys viewing straight porn in the same room. Would that be gay? What if you did that, but didn’t exactly “feed off each others erotic energy”? Is that gay? I just want to clear things up. Til then, I just walk around with a manly strut.

Michael Jordan- 1957-2009

It was on the news this mroing that Michael Jordan, the famed basketball player, has passed away suddeny due to an epilectic seizure, a condition the Chicago Bulls player did not mention to anyone. Not a lot of information has been released so far over the beloved player’s death, but an autopsy on Tuesday will reveal more about his sudden demise.

Michael Jordan’s death comes as a great shock to all in the basketball world, as most of Jordan’s fellow players would remark that he was a very fit person, did not take drugs, seldom drank alcohol, lived off a healthy diet, and would very rarely succumb to epilectic seizures. It is only now unfortunately apparent that Jordan lived a life on his own, struggling with the condition.

Michael Jordan first came to fame when he played for the Chicago Bulls in 1993. Jordan immediately impressed fans and the media around the world by making the most slam-dunks in one season. Jordan gave up basketball to pursue a career in whoring himself to advertising; he appeared in advertisements for Pepsi, Burger King, Apple, and Laserdiscs because Michael Jordan always believed that coming second wasn’t all that bad.

^^Michael Jordan’s career wasn’t always successful.

Michael Jordan rose to mega-fame, above Jesus and even almost above The Beatles when Buckethead dedicated a song to him called “Jordan”. This song shot straight to number three on the Bilboards in July 2002 and became the highest selling lyric-less song ever. Michael Jordan, who wasn’t paid royalties, successfully sued Buckethead by $57 million, and bankrupt Buckethead, causing him to record his next albums in his basement.

In 2003, Michael Jordan announced that he would return to basketball on the 26th of June 2009. Just hours before he went on court, he was found dead in the changing room. Medics tried to resusitate him and ubercharge him, but were unsuccessful.

Michael Jordan’s heroic lifestyle has inspired many, including myself, to understand the true benenfits of Scientology and to accept people based on their appearance. Jordan’s integrity and chauvinism inspired many others to take up boxing, and his legacy continues on in the hearts of darkness.

RIP - sweet prince

They’re a lot bigger close up…

A-ha! Take that Cockburn, you stupidly named corporation of tree-hugging, homoerotic yuppies. I have your sign; what are you going to do about it? I can do whatever I want with it; I have you guys by the balls, a-a-ha-ha-ha!

And just to clear some things up, no, I didn’t steal it. It appears that the weak material used for holding the sign up was not enough for the God’s queefs we’ve been having in Perth for the past few. It finally gave way, flew past, concussed an old lady and flew straight into my arms. I’m now holding it ransom and I am willing to give it back, but only if Cockburn offer me these deals.

First of all, I want the numbers of this Thursday’s Lotto of $90 million to come up as, let’s say 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42, so that anyone who visits my blog between now and then will win part of the pool division (including myself). God, I’m such a generous bastard. All I do is I give and give, and no-one gives back in return. Well, I’m sick of it now; I want three million dollars every year for the next ninety years. Even after my untimely death at 23 I still want the money, which will go into my will and sit there and never do anything (think of it like a time capsule!).
I also want a giraffe painted like a zebra, a Valiant that doesn’t work, two walkie-talkies, a new retro bedroom with aquariums in the walls and light globes everywhere, a bus, a seal, a club for the seal, a seal club, 500X exstasy, a bunch of those little rubber things, y’know, the ones that go *neet* *neet* neet* *neet* *neet*, a box of those, um, all of the clothes from Good Sammy’s, and a helicopter flown in to my house by Timothy Dalton.

If I do not get these things in the next forty eight hours, I WILL kill the president of Earth; so you better get someone like Al Pacino or Tom Hanks on the case, because they’re very good at sorting out these things in a very certain amount of time.

Oh, speaking of which, these events will be detailed by myself, and will soon be published and then turned (disappointingly) into a film. Watch the skies for that one.

My blog wishes are coming true

Just recently, famed douchebag Kyle Sandilands was kicked off from his morning show !ndigestion and will no longer be a judge on Australian Idol. This is after a controversial guilp he pulled on his radio station when after being told by a fourteen year old girl that she had been raped two years prior, Kyle then asked “is that the only experience you’ve ever had?” Smooth! I got to say, if the guy ever released a book of pick-up lines, I certainly be in line for it (not that there’d be much a line).
Although I think that that sort of behaviour on radio should result in Kyle being sacked, I think every time Kyle every opened his fucking mouth on that show he should’ve ben sacked. I guess nationally humiliating a rape victim was the final straw.

So, the thing is, eons ago when I first made this blog, my first post was about Sandilands being a douche. Not much to the article; I’m pretty sure I didn’t even finish it. But now it’s curious that he’s being cast into the dungeon of never-return (ie the mediocre lifestyle of the ‘burbs) that perhaps my post was responsbile for Kyle’s arrest. Perhaps the nameless, faceless execs saw my post and thought “hmm, that guy is right. I mean, it’s on the internet. And you know … we must obey the INTERNET.” And so Sandilands was sacked; but where’s the references to my blog? Where’s my recognition? Where’s my royalties? Dammit man, I should be sitting on the back seat of a convertable in a ticker-tape parade, with people calling my name as I wave to people, shake hands and kiss babies. And then someone from a brothel with a high-calibre sniper will take a shot at me, but my head will simply deflect the bullet and it will ricochet into the nearest child and I will say “‘e ‘ad it ‘omink” and everyone will laugh. But I won’t. A single tear will fall past my cheek and land appropriately on my groin. I will never forget that day. We will never forget. Whatever it was that happened, or when it happened, or why we should care … we will … NEVER FORGET.

But, hey, I shouldn’t be too hard on Lord Tool Sandilands. His parents got divorced as a kid. Geez, I bet not many children ever had to go through that kind of thing. And when he left home, he would sit outside his dad’s house, playing “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” by Tammy Wynette and he would cry and stay there until the lights went out. Geez, how I can relate. I once applied for a job at McDonald’s, but the manager said I was too black. So I would sit outside that McDonald’s, playing “Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen whilst crying and waiting for my fries. The manager came out one day, took me inside the fryer and we made love. I didnt get the job, but I got something ever better.

Anyways, I’m just hoping that this is all the start of a beautiful friendship and that all my blogs will come true spooner or later. I hope that Guitar Hero 5 won’t be so dear; I hope the trailer for Let Me In won’t spoil the Swedish original; I hope The Simpsons gets played at the correct time as stted in the TV guide (not that I watch it on TV anymore, so suck on that Channel Ten. Yeah, how do you like that? How do you sleep at night when you know you’ve got one less customer? Yeah!); I hope that social masturbation breaks out of the taboo and becomes a normal activity for all heterosexual males; I hope Cockburn don’t take my precious sign back. I hope. I HOPE.

Dream, dream, dreaaam …

So, many a blogs ago, I promised I would start posting here about the wicked dreaams I would have. However, the government has prevented me from posting the details of the dreams on the internet bcause of how ridiculously fucked up they are. Not to worry, for I have overpowered them and now I have the upper hand. Anywho, here’s the considerably normal dream I had last night (or earlier this morning).

I was seeing a small stage production. On stage came Kevin Smith, Meg White and a Chauncey-looking puppet in a cage. This puppet screamed like hell because he was in agony and wanted to be let out, and was trying to bend the bars to escape. It was distressing to see, but our presenters assured us that it was just a load of fun.

That’s as far into the dream as I got. So yeah, not so fucked up. More to come (if my Kevin Rudd clone can fool the unsuspecting public for much longer).

Australian TV is now great for people with list fetishes (like me)

There’s a new program on Channel Ten called The Spearman Experiment and from judging the ads, it counted down the top 20 or 15 Australian comedic personalities. I thought that would be pretty cool, but I also thought “what the fuck does this have to do with Spearman? And who the fuck is Spearman?” About fifteen seconds into the show, I found out he was the man that invented lists. God-damn, that guy is my hero! I fucking love lists. I make lists all the time of things I need to do, things that need to be cleaned, movies to check out, countries with names that I can’t pronounce. When I grow up I even want to be a lister. If I had a list of things I love to do, listing would be my third favourite thing, behind vomiting and hanging out with disabled children.

But it wasn’t long before I was put off by this new show, hosted by that fat chick from Kath and Kim (at least I think it was her. Or maybe it was just a dream. Or maybe that fat chick lost weight). I did turn off the program not too long into it when a stab was taken at my favourite country, Germany. What the fuck is wrong with Germany; they’ve done some great things in the past. But I was not ready to turn off just yet. I had a bag of popcorn, three peanut butter sandwiches, a bunch of nachos (and dip), Vegemited corn bread things, a bowl of lettuce, five-hundred Twix bars, two five litre kegs of Pepsi Max, a baby sandwich, a finely-cut seal, a shit-load of Cheesos, ceral box with ceral and milk inside, a birthday cake for a loving daughter, pussy, a can of Mother, five bottles of Gatorade, the shit of God, a head of cheese, a stick of celery, and a tower of pancakes sitting neatly on my lap, I couldn’t just let it go all to waste (it’s my binge, before I purge. Just kidding; stupid bulemics). So I began channel-surfing and to my delight, 20 to 01 was on channel Nine; another list show. Hooray!

20 to 01 had their top 20 people with 15 minutes with fame. Number one was a certain cock-sucker, but it was good to see that host Bert Newton wasn’t one himself, which is less that can be said for Magda, for her show topped number one on the Spearman Experiment. At least I think, I don’t know. What am I critiquing Australian shows now, fuck that.

Anyway, if you have an uncontrollable list fetish that is ruining your life and had you disowned by your family and friends, then you’re going to be pretty spoilt come 7:30 on a Tuesday. Two list shows on at the same time; that’s some pretty clever scheduling. Better have your VCRs set; I know mine will be.

The Perth Royle Show

The Perth Royal Show is something I have less interest in with each coming year. In fact, this year my excitement level has dropped significantly down to “HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK! THE ROYAL SHOW!! SHIT YES!! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S HERE ALREADY!! WOW, A YEAR BY HAS GONE ALREADY. I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING IN A WHOLE YEAR, BUT OH MY CRAP, IT’S THE MOTHERFUCKING ROYAL SHOW!!!!

I went yesterday (on a public holiday, which was smart of me) with a few family members and I got there at around 11:20 and stayed til the end, 8:40, which makes it the longest time I’ve been at the Royal Show. Yes, it sure was tiring spending all the time walking around that I had to sit down at one point and fall asleep for nine hours. It was pretty good, though really just about all the attractions are just fore-play to the fireworks at the end, which are awesome.

The only problem I have the show is all the fucking prams and strollers going around. Why do babbies this young need to go to the show? They’re not going to remember it, not even on a sub-conscious level. And thank god for that, because they’d probably have bad memories of it because most of the babbies I see at the show look fucking miserable and they express that by crying their asses off, which annoys the piss out of me, especially if I’m trying to enjoy the Ranger. But it’s all to do with these selfish cunting parents that can’t be arsed paying for a babby-sitter so they just take the babby along with them, whether they fucking like or not. Man, that’s some serious opression of freedom right there. Don’t these people realise they have a resposibility as parents and they can’t just take their babbies wherever they want?

I’m asking a question.

I can’t fathom why babbies are still allowed at the Royal Show, but smoking isn’t. Why the hell not? Haven’t people reliased that smoking doesn’t exactly take up any space, so what’s the problem? And no, I don’t give a shit about second-hand smoking. That sounds like second-hand bullshit to me. Besides, second-hand smoke is great; it’s like the smokers are sharing their cigarrettes, and those things aren’t exactly cheap. So a heads-up for the organisation of the Perth Royal Show next year (which starts as early as now), if you want to make it smoke-free, fine, but make it babby-free as well. Those guys fill up too much unwanted space; we don’t want them there, and they don’t want to be there.

And if you’re wondering about the title, I was having a look at some of the birds and there were drawings of them done by kids. Those drawings sucked, I could do way better than that. And on one it said “Perth Royle Show”. They didn’t even spell it right. Those kids suck!

A dream within a dream…

Another wonderful night of my favourite past-time, sleeping, has left me with a myriad of bizarre and ultimately meaningless dreams. Among such popular topics as sex, recently deceased celebrities, and copraphilia, posting dreams on the internet has been very popular among the disturbed individuals of Arkham Asylum, and I proudly follow in this tradition.

I had a few dreams last night/early this morning and I’m not sure what order they were in, but I’ll do my best. However, the structure of my dreams are not dissimilar to a David Lynch film and perhaps it is unnecessary to place the dreams in their correct order after all. So I’ll start with where I can. I’m in the car with my mum, on our way to her friend’s house. She is doing heroin and offers me some. I claim that I don’t like needles (which I don’t), but I ask for some cocaine instead, so she hands me a packet and I do it. I’m then at the house of her friend’s (I think I’ve sobered up). Her friend’s daughter is quite cute and I wouldn’t mind chatting her up, but I instead decide to rifle through their book collection. To my delight I find a self-written autobiography of Andrei Tarkovsky, which inside has paintings from his father (but I thought his father was a poet? Or maybe he is a painter as well?). Although the water-colour painting on the front of Andrei is impressive, I’m disappointed to find inside that the paintings inside are merely water-colour paintings of weather maps.
I then take out another book, which is a list of a bloke I know on a forum’s favourite films, and the book condemns him for not making these films popular enough. I flick to the back and sure enough I see his favourite film under W, Werckmeister Harmonies. I see some behind-the-scenes photos of the film, including a fan that had to be used on the camera during the long takes and I discover that Bela Tarr was only 16 years old when he made the film (which is impressive, because he must’ve only been one year old when he directed Almanac of Fall).

Another dream I had, that was quick, was I was at my cousin’s house, and I had a beer in hand, but I wasn’t drunk. I passed out (not from the beer) and then woke up as I was being dragged into the other room. Like I said, my memory was a bit foggy with the order of these dreams, but it’s possible that I had a dream within a dream. Perhaps that’s where I dreamt I was going through my own parent’s book collection and found Mein Kampf (hmmm, I prefer their friend’s collection).

Is it Halloween, or Groundhog Day?

As an Australian, I didn’t celebrate Halloween, as us Australians seem to be quite oblivious when it comes to holidays. We do like to have our days off from work and such, but only to spend it sleeping. And with sleep comes dreams, which I’ve had so many of over the past few, but only the most disturbed and mind-breaking will be posted here.

So in the early parts of Halloween morning, I had a dream that I woke up and I had a kidney infection! Oh no; my least favourite kind of infection. Not only was it painful, but it also lead to the zombie apocalypse. It got pretty boring being bound in my own bedroom, so I decided to play on my new Nintendo DS, which looked like a GameBoy Advance SP. The microphone was external this time and it was incredibly small and took some fiddling to work out. Don’t be surprised if they realise a new DS soon. I once had a dream one of my mates bought a DS, except it was smaller and had the mic between the two screesn. Three weeks later, the DS Lite was revealed.

Back onto my zombie apocalypse dream, and as if things couldn’t get any worse, when I managed to get some sleep, I woke up and it all happened again, just like in Groundhog Day. How awful; that’s like if I spent the day as a hot chick, but it was on the day of her period.

And after I woke up, I had an itchy back that I couldn’t scratch! But don’t worry, after numerous over-expensive tests, I was revealed to be in good health, apart from a healthy bout of life-destroying anxiety. So I’m glad I didn’t have to spend my Halloween night in a hospital bed on life-suport, just like many other young adults will.

Review: Modern Warfare 2

The sequel to the greatest sequel this decade is finally here. On the back of the cover, it says Modern Warfare 2 is the most anticipated game this decade. Although Halo 3 may have something to say about that, it certainly had lines going all the way back to 1977, where the lines for Star Wars were just as big. Not that I had to trek through these lines; I simply strutted my stuff up to the front of the queue and got my copy of the game for free, just like a celebrity. That’s fucking bullshit; why do these celebrities, who have enough money to supply Darfur with copies of Modern Warfare 2, get theirs for free, and all us poor homeless schmucks have to go without water and food for a week so we can afford a game we don’t even like anyway. Fuck those celebrities! Those smug cunts, rangling around like their shit don’t stink. Well, you know what, their shit does stink. It smells terrible. I’d know, cause I smell all of their shit. That’s my job and it’s not exaclty a high-paying job, so having to pay for MW2 with my own hard-earned money rose a sickening feeling in my lower stomach area that celebrities should consider whenever they score free cocaine at their next weekly spa with cancer kids. Thankfully, this was money well spent.

Modern Warfare 2 is your usual Call of Duty sequel; it’s got satisfying combat, informative and efficient cut-scenes, great music, and really awesome/morally-bankrupt set-pieces that make you go “… …”. The most amount of fun in the campaign mode is had with the snow levels (taking place in Georgia, somewhere). Stealth is usually the key to these levels and begin the Splinter Cell fan that I am, that satisfied me. The same can’t be said for the first Brazil level, which is insanely difficult as you’re put on a spit of bullets coming from all directions; these moments of taking cover and carefully pinning off enemies only to have one come up from behind and rape you is not a lot of fun.

For the most part, the game looks gorgeous. The details aren’t exactly the best I’ve seen on the 360, but what is done with the graphics looks wonderful. The levels set in America, as boring as they are, look really great, especially seeing the Pentagon on fire, which would give Rolland Emmerich a raging boner. But the game is the one with the biggest stiffy over itself. In one level, you become an entirely different character in space who gets killed five seconds after. This whole level just demonstrates that Infinity Ward have shown how great the world looks when it’s destroyed, they might as well show you how aesome space looks when it’s destoryed as well. Oh well, definitely something to show your friends (just don’t get all get boners, otherwise you won’t be able to be friends anymore).

Overall, only half of the levels are great fun, as opposed to most of the levels like with Modern Warfare. Some of the moments involving vehicles are so much fun, yet they aren’t nearly long or hard enough. But at least you can replay these moments in Special Ops, the new addition to the series, which is a load of fun and should have you playing it for hours furiously trying to get all 69 stars (just make sure you do it with a friend, otherwise you’re in for a real bitch of a time). As for multi-player, it seems good, but I haven’t played it much. Just don’t listen to anyone who says that online modes are full of annoying 10 year old dickholes, because every single fucking game has them and your so-called friends are killing/being killed by them all the time on their favourites games.

What’s all the fuss about dead babies?

With Boxing Day so close to us right now, I thought what better way to cremate the silly season than with a rant about dead babies. Why do people get so upset when a baby dies? It’s sad and all, but people make it out to sound like that baby was the life of the party; like they were a joy to hang around, always cracking jokes, helping others with their problems, and being good company. I doubt any baby is like that. Most babies that I know do nothing but sleep and puke, shit and piss all over the place. What the hell kind of person is that? You constantly have to keep telling them to stop doing it, but they sort of look over at something, completely ignoring you, as if they don’t understand what you are talking about. It’s aggrivating. I hate babies. None of them even have any personalities. They’re all the same, and they’re boring as well. I can’t have a decent conversation with any of them, nor can I play any sports with them. Like I said, all they do is sleep, and shit. I don’t get the big deal over them.

You know what is sad; people that die from drug-overdoses. That’s shocking and is always hard for those close to the person who mixed cocaine and crushed exstasy to get any sort of thrill out of their depressed life. You never know if it’s gonna happen to someone that you know, unless you’re the one giving them the drugs. I always get sad reading about good-willed people who die in drug-related car accidents/explosions; apart from the unexplainable and outrageously dangerous decisions these people make, they don’t deserve to die. And we all know who’s to blame for all these drug problems; the drug dealers. Why do they have to be so suave when dealing out their drugs? God-dammit, not even I’m able to resist their charms. Hell, I’m even going out with my drug dealer at the moment, and I’m not even gay. Not that that’s relevant since he is a girl. Yes, even women now are drug dealers. That’s absolutely shocking. As a feminist, I’d like to propose that all women should not venture in any unsafe occupations at all and should restrict themselves to the household where they can look after the kids or in the workplace if their family needs some extra income, and they should all wear skirts, for it shows off not only their feministic power, ability and equality, and also their thighs.

But death is no laughing matter. It’s something that happens thousands of times every single day, so you’d think we’d all be used to it by now. People still carry on about death. Every SINGLE person that dies have to have some sort of overly-lavish obituary. I sure as hell know that I won’t have much when I come to my timely death at age 25.  They’ll have to at least pry the body from the corner of the basement, and by then my organs will not be healthy enough to donate, so it’d be off to the junk-yard for me. Not that I care, because I’ll be dead. Dead people don’t care about anything; they are unable to, so stop being all sensitive when someone dies. Way to call him a good bloke AFTER  he snuffed himself. Maybe if you told him that when he was still alive, he wouldn’t have done it.

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, how much babies rule. Oh, wait a minute, wasn’t I talking about how much I hate them? Well, maybe not after all. Babies are alright. I mean, when’s the last time a baby couldn’t shut the fuck up about their college hex debt, or the last time a baby rudely pulled out his/her iPhone while you were in a conversation with them? Babies don’t talk over people, unles they’re crying or puking. All they do is listen; they act like a free pychiatrist, which I guess is why so many people have babies. And that’s important for someone who is mentally disturbed as me.

I don’t know.

Merry Christmas.

Neonman’s Baadasssssss Dream

My dreams/tormented nightmares are very seldom badass; they are more often than not disturbing, uninspiring, demotivating, sexy (in a regrettable, scatological sort of way), and just plain totally fucked up. But the other night, I was treated to quite a bad-ass dream that inspired me to wake up and punch a dinosaur in the throat with my raging boner.

The dream seems to start off with me watching a movie about a guy (or being that guy in a movie-like situation; I can never really know). This guy (me) is a negotiator and arrives at a prison to negotiate with a suicidal inmate who has taken over the prison. I manage to talk to this bloke between a set of bars. During our negotiation, possibly at the breaking point of the music crescendo to alleviate any real tension, I take out my handkerchief and wrap it around the guy’s arms and trap him to the bars, Rorschach style. I then quip in a more-than-adequate Clint Eastwood impression “oh, I’m sorry. let me cut you out”. So I whip out my switch-blade and cut the guy’s arms off from behind the handkerchief. *HEAVY GUITAR STRUM*

That’s awesome! Although I’m sure I would’ve then lost my job as a negotiator after a nonsensical decision like that, but god-damn, that’d be one to go down in the ages (that is, become an internet meme). I hope more of my dreams can be as bad-ass as that one, otherise I’ll only suffocate further into the depressing vortex of the dream-world, only to asphyxiate in my own dark vomit.

Happy Australian New Year!

Cor blimey, luvaduk, bang on gov’nur, it’s the Australian New Year; January 26th. How did everyone find their Australian New Year’s? I had a great time with mine, glad you didn’t ask. I had a very enjoyable time out with my family, friends, enemies, and nemesi, but with the new alcohol laws, prohibiting us Aussies from getting far more drunk than is reasonable and fighting each other in public places, I had to make sure I got drunk before I went out by downing twelve Coranas, nine Bees Nees, six Vodka Cruisers, and a dozen sots of Bourban (and by shots, I mean full glasses) and make it through the night without vomiting, which would end up negating my drunkeness. I succeeded.

I think I portrayed the perfect true blue “good day to you mate” Aussie fashion on our holiest of days. I got completely sloshed, punched my best friend’s girlfriend in both of her boobs, got a tattoo of a Swastika on both sides of my butt, punched an Iranian soldier in his wheelchair for no reason, and had unprotected sex with a Korean woman without her consent. Pretty fair dinkum, eh? Yeah, nah.

So with this celebratory yule that has once again come to a violent end, we should all look forward to the new decade and contemplate on where we were ten years ago and where we’ll be ten years from now. Perhaps you will be in a new house. Or maybe you will have a new job. Maybe in all this time you might even make a new friend. Who knows what might happen. As for myself, I have my aspirations for what may come of thsi decade, but my asipirations always get blue-balled, so I decided instead to reinstate a new New Decade’s resolutions;

- Don’t die.
- Practise chivalry.
- Get everyone back into Beyblades.
- Go to the circus at least once.
- Confess disturbing sexual desires to a complete stranger.
- Use the internet more.
- Exercise my thumbs a bit more.
- Use less sticky tape.

Well, they are my resolutions for this possibly horrendous decade, which is off to a horrible start already (Conan being booted, Brangelina being surgically seperated, Haiti disaster) but not that I give a crap about these things anyway because I am an Australian citizen and as one, I only care about the problems us Aussies have to put up with. I don’t even know what a 9/11 is.

So for this decade, I propose that we manage to get Michael Atkinson out of office and fix up this buggery broadband that we all have down here. Do you think it can be done? Well, us Australians are only seven years behind the rest of Western civilisation, so I these things will eventually come to fruition. Eventually …

Man, fuck the Sydney Mardi Gras

I say boycott the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. It’s way too sexual to be a public event, regardless of sexual orientation. If, on any other given day, I roamed the streets of Sydney with a cowboy hat placed on my raging erection, I would be fucking arrested. But there seems to be one day on the calendar when it’s acceptable. And no, I’m not homphobic, you’re just heterophobic. What if this was a bunch of straight guys and girls in g-strings, making out and touching each other in public on floats and boats? It’d be like the inside of a swingers party, except the stench of a swingers party would make Sydney look like Los Angeles.

And don’t give me any shit about any politcal statements. Nobody, repeat, NOBODY  makes a political statement in nothing but their underwear and a sailor’s hat. Everyone these days think they’re a political activist. Christ, I don’t go around acting like I know shit that I don’t. But not only do they not know shit, but they also don’t know shit about how to correctly influence the political system to keep in tune with the social climate. I’ve got shit against the Australian government, but I sure as shit don’t know how to change the laws (though I suppose it has something to do with putting together a report to propose a change in an existing act or to suggest a new act in parliament. And it should be presented whilst wearing  a FUCKING SUIT. And I bet my balls that it doesn’t involve a car-boat).

If anything, I’m glad that a overly-sexual event like this is gay orientated, otherwise it’d be far too hairy for Sydney’s liking (it ain’t pretty when the roads turn to carpets of pubes). But the Mardi Gras isn’t something suitable for the outdoors. Nor is it politically important. It’s just an event for pseudo-political narcissists to partake in, which is fine, but something that needs to be a whole less public. This isn’t the counter-culture revolution (that failed miserably in the 80s, remember), where ‘shocking’ equaled ‘effective political change’. If you want to shock someone, photograph yourself peeing out your butthole and onto your face in a bath-tub (but remember to wear a mask). Nobody is shocked or influenced by the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras anymore; just annoyed. It does nothing for the homophobic; in fact the in-your-face attitude of these parades only pisses them off even more. I’m surprising myself by saying this, but the Sydney Mardi Gras are forcing me to say it so here it is; somebody think of the children.

Seriously, they made me say that. Fuck the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras.

Get Well, Neonman; from Neonman

It’s been a while since I’ve made a post, but this time I have an excuse. I’ve recently taken a short holiday at Murdoch Hospital to have a nuisance removed from my bladder. I had an 8mm growth lying there (no, it wasn’t a bullet) that was removed last Wednesday. It had to be identified first, so the doctors had to take a look at it via  tube-camera (I’ll let you guess where they had to put that. Worst experience of my life). A few weeks after that, I went to hospital to thankfully be put under anesthetic and have it removed. I woke up a few hours later to find myself under the spell of sedatives, which was great (if I ever succumb to drug-taking, I’m blaming the hospital).

Now this growth has been taken to the Bat-lab to be scrutinized by the nation’s leading scientists to see if I have cancer or if it’s just the most beautiful word in the world; benign. Either way, I can expect to go through the worst experience of my life every few months. Right now, I am recovering from my wounds; and by recovering, I mean doing a shit-ton of homework that I didn’t get done during my study break (even though I wrote every assignment due date in my diary weeks prior so that I’d make sure I’d be prepared, but I guess the closest ones went right by my radar).

My bladder is still battered and bruised from the operation, and I now have to re-learn how to use it (but don’t take that the wrong way. Or maybe you should). I also feel really tired (possibly more to due with this damn muggy weather, as you would expect from Autumn), I’m thirsty most of the time, and I have to get up nearly a dozen times a night to go to the lueve. And take in mind, I am not (on the contrary) a 56 year old Irish dude in a white shirt; I am 18 years old, relatively healthy, I have a good diet, I am a non-smoker, non-drinker, I’ve never taken drugs, and I’ve never placed anything in my urethra before. I guess all this must be to do with my inferior genes or something, which is bullshit. It’s just like Gattaca, I’ll never be an astronaut now.

So, yeah, the fun never stops with me. I’m also at university now (for real) achieving a Bachelor in Procrastinating.

Twitter for Twatter

My home-boy, Ass, has gotten himself a Twitter account and he is posting his wicked rhymes up on there. It’s sick, I can’t believe what an original artist he is. He just speaks the truth. Please follow his Twitter because if he gets enough followers and becomes popular enough, he might even turn his words into actual music via a record deal. Check it out now!

http://twitter.com/theasssssssssss

Forget Ke$ha, it’s Helen Reddy who’s oppressing women

As a feminist, I go through political suffering on a daily basis. I am encouraged by the idea of what Women can be and if they actually fucking try for once they can be as great, if not always better, than men. This is unfortunately not the case since Women discovered their inner “femme fatale” (known in the colour world as a “slut”) and realised that their sexual appeal was the only way that they could ever obtain anything in real life. The only other way a Woman would be able to get a job, boyfriend, driver’s licence, or abortian is if they actually had talent, intellect, integrity, or a likeable personality.

This current state of Woman’s liberation being in the shitter is emphasised beautifully in the lyrics of Ke$ha’s songs, where she encourages the use of alcohol to have an enjoyable time and promotes sexual impatience and a strong lack of abstienecy (“Don’t be a little bitch with your chit chat / Just show me where your dick’s at”). Just like all other Women pop singers, she has become an influence on all 12 year old girls who will all try to emulate her style and morals, and lackof.

But as bad as things are now, let us all be grateful that this is all not as bad as the days of 1972; a date of which I have travelled back to and discovered is a terrible place. Feminism sunk an all-time low through pseudo-progression and fueled narcissism via “I Am Woman” by Helen Reddy. Although it is generally considered one of the most important songs in feministic culture, it is actually a counter-productive piece of work that demeans not only Women and men, but also other culture groups, certain animals, and maybe even aliens or extra-terrestrial life that can not be identified by the five senses us humans possess.

The first problem that we discover is the title, which has several errors. It claims “I Am Woman”, which is gramatically incorrect; it should either state “I Am a Woman” or perhaps “We Are Women”. Despite the inequality Women faced in 1972 concerning job, military, and prostitution oppurtunites, education was not so much a disadvantage. Yet this song sees to consider otherwise, falsely proclaiming Women to be intellectually inferior to men. Also, perhaps the title is grammatically incorrect on purpose and that Helen Reddy is merely a synecdoche of all women. If so, this is an incredibly narcissistic and irresponsbile self-offer for Reddy to claim. The whole point of feminism is that it’s not the struggles of one women representing all women, but that of each individual women that culminates to so many problems and troubles that a simple song will not progess at all. Unless the song is actually worsening the problems and pouring lemon juice into the wounds of feministic issues, which is exactly what this song does.

Continuing on with the title line of the song is followed up with “Hear Me Roar”. What kind of joke is this? Over all these decades, Women (even those of the intelligent kind) have applauded this song, yet completely oversaw a connection of ALL women to an animal. This doesn’t just demean Women, it dehumanises them, proclaiming that they have no intellectual communication known as a “human language” and instead must resort to the animalistic cries that humans abolished post-Neatherthal ages. Helen Reddy set feminism back all the way through the use of just one line. And people complain that Ke$ha (oh God, it’s so hard to type that name) called her album “Animal”. Ke$ha might not be able to spell, or sing, but she can at least express her distaste for proper Female etiqutte and integrity through the poetic use of the English language.

To many, the theme of this song is that Women can do anything, or something like that. I don’t know, it’s about burning bras, innit? What kind of ludicrous, backwards stating symbolic message crap is that? If they’re burning their bras, then that’s one less piece of clothing for men to ripaway at. Hey, how about burning them panties of yours too. And then I’ll burn my condom ’cause we don’t need that. And if you get pregnant, it’s no worries, ’cause no problem can’t be erased through the use of a good long lit match. But I disgress, into a fatal coma, after the stupidity that slipped into my brain when I heard this song. I immediately realised the true meaning of the song, that all other Women decided to ignore so they could continue on with their miserable lives, complaining about the husbands after every time they complimented him on a good well done on his new promotion, of which a large portion of the money would go to their childrens’ college funds. It is that the only joy that Women can ever suckle out from this world can only be brought upon them if they allow themselvs to be subject to horrendous amounts of pain and humiliation (both of which (psycho) sexual). Reddy once makes a proclaimation that proceeds as ” Oh yes I am wise, But it’s wisdom born of pain. Yes, I’ve paid the price, But look how much I gained”. Taking on the quote “whatever doesn’t kills you, makes you stronger”, however this quote was disproven by Doctor Hibbert. some decades later, sure, but someone had to say it. As a car accident survivor, I believe that whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you wiser like the wise lion that Reddy compares all Women to, via her own narcissistic self.

But whether or not you agree with the statement, my analysis still holds strong; Reddy believes that Women are masochistic, and that for Women to feel any joy or to achieve anything in this world, they must first go through an agony of some sort so that they may only then be educated through the most horrific way possible to be able to enjoy a couple of pancakes on a hot winter’s evening. Many Women claim that this is the song that has helped them through the most horrific of disease allictions (the kind that afflict Women only, of course) such as breast cancer, ovarian cancer, reasonless depression, cerebral palsy, and, worst of all, childbirth. All the power to them, but I’m still going to disprove them like the genius asshole I am. I am like Jesus; I spread around the words that people don’t wish to hear and would rather have me perish in the worst way possible than have to hear another one of my stupid opinions. Listen here laaaaadiiieesss, there’s no reason to suffer through pain just so you can have a good time playing Russian Roulette with your husband, on the contrary of what Reddy might say. Women are not simply constructed through painful moments of life (“You can bend but never break me, ’cause it only serves to make me”). Not to say Women don’t have to go through painful moments in life. Cut your wrist to make you realise the importance of life, whatever.  Pain is certainly integral to life. But Reddy seems to think that for Women much incredibly like herself that pain is life. 

I could continue on with all the problems that I have with Helen Reddy and her song of oppression that would make a singlet-wearing Hitler blush, but I’ve only got one more beef with this song left anyway, so let us continue. Although she doesn’t believe “pain is life” for men, and believes that not only should Women only experience pain, but that men are incapable of feeling pain (“With a long long way to go. Until I make my brother understand”). And from her own fucked up philosphy, this must also mean that since wisdom and knowledge can only be obtained through pain that men have none of it. That men are some machine that walks along stating “I feel no pain, ergo I feel no empathy for anyone. Especially Women. I am the reason all bad things exist”. Reddy just doesn’t seem to be able to grasp the concept that men and Women are really not that different and that we all human; the only difference is that we either have a dick or a cunt. And some of us pee blood every now and again.

Well, I’ve never really been good on conclusions. I will say that if you happen to be a Women reading and think “what the fucking fuck kind of fucking chauvinistic man-pig is this? Go back to jerking off to photoshooped nude pictures of Emma Watson and Sarah Palin while you cry yourself to sleep because you’ll never get a girlfriend. Oh yeah, sure, you may have had like 50 girlfriends in high school, but none of them really loved you; they only admired your sense of humour, your great looks, your easy-going likeable personality, your assertive ability to handle problems whether they be technical or emotional, and the fact that just being with you made them feel really safe and calm. Fuck you asshole”. That’s okay, I can handle a lot of abuse, but only over the internet. In real life, I am a cowering, anxiety-ridden, grotty, pathetic excuse for a human being, which is what some people may call a Woman. But if you think this way, then you’re absolutely wrong and I am absolutely right, as always (but only on the innernette). It’s been 38 years since this song came out and rocked the air-waves with it’s propaganda, forcing women to painfully squeeze out babbies like they’re suppose to, and I doubt one stupid blog will change the effect this song has had on all Women across the globe. But if you think Ke$ha is setting the feministic movement back a few centuries, consider her lyrics carefully and although she doesn’t come across as someone you could show your mum, she at least has an apathetic view on the Women around her, rather than lifting up her skirt and saying “let’s do it ladies. Attack! FORE!” Consider my words the next time you listen to Helen Reddy’s song of carefully constructed backwards meanings that have subliminally turned the feministic movement into a post-apocalypse setting, if it weren’t for Ke$ha. Or, I’ll just say fuck you.

A List of Reasons to Kill Yourself

A lot of controversial and taboo subjects get a lot of bad rep that I feel is undeserved, the most baffling is suicide. The act of killing yourself seems like the ultimate embodiment of liberation and supports the pro-choice cause. Despite this, it’s one of the most shunned subjects in our society, which can’t make the suicidal feel any better about themselves. So to do just that, I’ve compiled a list about why the easy way out is always the right way out.

Reduce your carbon footprint entirely- All the things that you do that emit carbon dioxide gases include use of computers, phones, light-switches, vehicles, not to mention all farting and burping coming from your repugnant human body (sorry, got to avoid your triggers). One person relieving themselves from this world, or even five hundred people, probably won’t have a great impact on the fragile environment we non-suicidal people fucked with, but each bullet in the brain or rope-burn on the neck is a step forward in the right direction. With enough people feeling worthless enough to do it, soon factories across the globe will have to reduce their operations, thus reducing their emissions. The less people there are, the less dangerous global warming will be for the rest of us.

Raise suicide awareness- The more suicides there are, the more awareness it receives. In 2009, over 2000 Australians committed suicide and this sort of statistic has instigated awareness groups regulated for one-day awareness campaigns such as RU OK?. Like with the carbon emissions, one person going through with it probably won’t make an impact (unless you’re a celebrity), but death is numbers can have fabulous results.

Bring your loved ones together- Across the board, suicide awareness will become prevelant, although one more knotch on the statistic isn’t going to say much, you being that knotch  (it probably won’t even put a knotch on the statistic). But amongst those that loved you and truly cared for you (not enough to make you keep living), there will certainly be a ripple-effect of compassion. Further suicides amongst your family and friends will be prevented because no-one’s going to want to go through what Jimmy or Sally went through – they don’t want to see their face or hear their screams on the other side just yet. Although this will indeed prevent

Free up your loved ones’ expenses- If your a teenager going through the suitably suicidal hormones, what happens to your college funds, and the money given to you every two weeks to spend on getting half-way done, and all that money being spent on your greedy ass when you get back home? Kill yourself and your guilt will free up, along with your parent’s wallet; they’re going to mourn your death on their new jet-ski in Marisha’s*.

Everyone will finally love you-

There’s no point in killing yourself in the most painful way possible; living.

For further lullaities and incentives, check this out

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9oIeLKB0wU8

Charlie Sheen

Charlie Sheen