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

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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.