Friday, 30 March 2012

Pasty la Vista, Baby

As I may have mentioned, I don't really follow the news much.


However, what I have seen this week has amused me!




From what I gather, there is now a tax on pasties? Or hot food in general? I assume this is some sort of 'fat-tax,' designed to make some money off the chubbier amongst us before they wreak havok on the NHS with their decaying loads?


"What the fuck? Is this just a post in which you try and guess what's going on based on having seen the front cover of The Sun?"


Oh fuck, yeah, so far it kind of us! 


But, I shall get to what amused me with post haste!


Basically, there were pictures of conservative MP's trying to eat pasties, and the looks of sheer, confused revulsion on their faces was absolutely fucking amazing!


"Oh fuck! Oh my Thatcher sharpening fuck! Why is it so dry? Why is it so fucking dry!? Oh, you dirty fucking peasant bastards. No wonder you all look like sacks of medical waste with frowny faces drawn on, if this is what you eat, you dirty shitting pricks."


"What if I just hold it near my face like the cookie monster? No good? Oh, you nasty little cat biffer. Not you, I was talking to the food."


"Oh christ, there's more! What are these? Meat and potato? Meat? Do these granny strangling binge spongers not even care what animal they're eating?"



"Hot, HOT, HOT! Is it supposed to be that hot? Really!? You complain that we treat you like idiots, then you go and buy fatty pockets of fire as a treat? You need to get a fucking grip Britain."


There's a guy called David Ike who left his former career as a BBC sports presenter to start telling people that the world is secretly controlled by reptilian humanoids, who pose as political figures and other people of note. While that sounds like he would be on the fringe of what is already a fringe group of people, he is massively popular, despite the unlikelihood of his mental fucking ideas. ***

However, are these pictures of political figures attempting to eat human food the first concrete evidence that politicians are actually giant lizards? I mean, am I going crazy, or is this next picture clearly a space reptile in a man suit confusedly tasting a Gregg's cheese and onion with his slimy mouth probe? 

"Mraaaaw!"




*** I watched a pretty good documentary a bit ago in which a psychologist hypothesised that conspiracy theorists believe that all of the worlds scariest events are meticulously controlled by shadowy puppet masters, because the idea that the world is out of control is actually far scarier indeed. So essentially, conspiracy theories are God for people who are attracted to bastards.

The documentary was about the 9/11 conspiracies. The best bit was when they interviewed some people from construction companies, who all agreed that it would be impossible to collapse the twin towers as part of a controlled demolition, as the preparatory work would take weeks and would be highly noticeable. The head conspiracy honchos first response to this was:


ALL of the construction companies are in on it

Finding that "theory" implausible even by their own standards however, they came up with a new stance, which was:

The government used secret explosive material that no one knows about

Yes.

But really, once you're at the point where you are accusing people of using 'secret explosive material that no one knows about,' essentially what you are saying is:

Magic. They did it with magic.

"Oh, so you don't think that the world is secretly controlled by an insidious cabal of absolute bastards do you? Huh, yeah right."


Err, no, not really. 

What I believe is that the world is quite visibly controlled by a quite visible gang of absolute bastards, who have worked out that they can sustain their power by providing a minimum level of comfort for a majority of people.

Once you can no longer get a hot sausage roll for a reasonable price anymore, that's when all the secret lizard bastards will come out.


Click to enlarge pictures


Thursday, 29 March 2012

May, the Remorse be with You

Luke and I were talking with our friends one day:


"Remember maypole dancing in primary school?" we asked.


But they just stared at us blankly, not really fathoming what we were talking about, turning the alien words over in their mouths as if they were kebab flavoured chewing gum:


"Maypole... dancing...?"


(Click pictures to enlarge)




"Bastard!" we exclaimed, 


realising that we'd been tricked into taking part in some sort of freaky, pagan fertility ceremony under the pretext that what we were doing was normal. 


But it isn't normal.


It's like Normal's cousin, the one that convinced him that it's not weird to look at one another's trouser tenants when you're related, and you're led under a Volkswagen to hide from the rain.


Yes... Normal's cousin...


Anyway, some of you may not even know what maypole dancing is!







Well it's not that.






Or that.


Maypole dancing is when you get a big, fuck off pole, you tie a load of ribbons to it, and then people hold onto them and skip around the thing like background-idiots from the credits of a 'Shrek' movie. Apparently the pole itself may represent the male gland, although I don't know whether or not to believe that, as some penis just want everything to be a penis. By doing different dances anyway, it's possible to create a number of different patterns with the ribbons, such as:


THE SPIDER'S WEB






THE STRAIGHT FORWARD
                                       
THE TRAPPED KID
THE ASPHYXIATED KID

THE DICED INTO SEGMENTS KID

THE BIRD'S NEST OFPRETTY FLOWERS






Every year there was a May Queen and a Prince of May, and I still vividly remember the year when it was the turn of someone from my year to take on that honour.


"They'll never pick me," I assumed. "A fat kid with a two tubes a day Pritt-Stick habit."


So sure was I that I didn't even think it, it was just an unspoken certainty.


But, you'll never guess what!


"What, did a vampiric goat call you an 18-wheel tuggernaut or something?"


it's a vampiric goat failing to deliver his lines correctly




Well yeah, that did happen, but that's not what I'm trying to explain right now...


No, what I'm trying to explain is that I was picked to be the Prince of May! 


I whooped like a popped bag of Monster Munch when I heard, leapt to my feet and ran up to the stage to receive the customary crown of vampiric goats' testicles






Much like 'President of the United States of America,' 'Prince of May' is a title that one retains forever, so I am still technically pagan royalty.


I go back every year actually, to oversee the coronation of the new Prince along with all the other lads who've held the station. It's quite a beautiful ceremony actually. 


It starts when me and the other Princes of May go down to the local Lidl (in years past it was a Netto), and pick out the ugliest, dumbest, mouth-breathiest chicken drumstick eater we can find, before throwing a net over him and then clubbing him with our ceremonial, hand-held Maypoles. 


When the peasant comes round, he finds himself suspended from the ceiling by his cankles, and is usually teary eyed and bottomed. It's at this point that the new Prince of May enters the room, and we all chant:


"MAY, MAY, MAY, MAY, MAY!"


Once he's acclimatised to the screaming fatso that is dangling from the roof beams, we give him a bike helmet full of sharpened hard boiled eggs, and chant:


"EGG THE GOON, EGG THE GOON, EGG THE GOON!!!"


while he eggs the goon. 


Often to death.




And you all honestly never did any of this at your primary school?



Wednesday, 28 March 2012

Hair Today, None Tomorrow

When I draw myself in pictures, I have long hair.






But I don't, at least don't currently, have the long hair in real life.


"So why Willis?" you wail. "Why would you lie to us? And why would you lose the luxuriously long hair which you were so famous for?"




Okay, well I lied to you because I care not for your futile, human needs or emotions.






Why did I lose my hair though? Now that is the question.


Basically, it was getting a bit too long, and my mum happened to ask:


"Would you like your hair cutting?"


Now, back then, I used to assume that anyone who offered to cut your hair had some sort of basic grasp of how to do so. Unfortunately, in the case of my mother, this was not the case.


And:


SHE FUCKING BUTCHERED ME!


It was all over the shop: I looked like I'd got into a turf war with a gang of plastic fork wielding borrowers: I looked like I had ADHD and a book entitled 'Ten Really Shitty Self-Chopped Hair Cuts,' : I looked like I owed my hairdresser money: I looked like a twat basically.






"Hmm, yes, that does look pretty bad."


That's with it tied up too, it looked worse down.


"Yeah, but that doesn't explain... your face... in this picture. Tell us, what are you doing with that old thing?"


Okay, so I'd heard that if you look slightly downwards in pictures, you will look better.


"You don't though do you. You look like..."


A bad person. I just look like a wholly bad person. The sort of person who you don't remember sleeping with, having drank suspiciously little, and then wake up to find kicking off because you've not cleaned out your coffee plunger with the correct coffee plunger cleaner, and they can detect a hint of residue around the edge which has ruined the taste of what would have already been a rather mediocre roast. The sort of person who should have been plungered straight back down the municipal outdoor pool toilet they crawled out of.


"Yes, quite. Does the fact that you're providing both voices in this conversation not worry you?"


Not really. My entire inner monologue is usually a duologue as I like to conduct long interviews with myself.


"Is that normal?"


Dunno.


"Ah, okay. Anyway, you're also fatter than you draw yourself in your pictures, why don't you explain that?"


Oh yeah. Well, I'd rather not, but okay.


Basically:



  1. Fat people never draw themselves as fat as they are
  2. I've just bought swimming pool membership rather than food so I'll be reet in a month or two
  3. I have to buy less pens this way

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

Disgracebook

You may think that this is a post bashing Facebook, but the disgrace is all mine I'm afraid!


I have recently returned to the social networking titan that is Facebook, after a two year hiatus. I had previously deactivated my account because I had grown to hate the site like a relatively normal looking person would hate having a freaky Siamese twin, in that I wanted to sever my connections, but I wasn't really sure how much of my innards would come gushing out if I was to go ahead with that social, surgical procedure. ***


Turns out it wasn't that bad, but then again, I was going through a fairly severe bout of anxiety and depression, so I didn't really need to have any contact with my friends at the time.


However, having now slain the beast that calls itself Sadface, I need some sort of easy method of communicating with my friends, and it turns out that I now love the Facebook!


As soon as my depression manifested itself as a dinosaur, his days were numbered.




One thing I've noticed about it now is that there seem to be four types of people on there:



  1. People who use Facebook to engage with the world, and then try and encourage/pester other people to do the same thing.
  2. People who get annoyed by people using Facebook to engage with the world, and are all like, "Ohhh yah, for sure, it's easy to just sit there clicking things, blah blah blah." These are the second worst people on the site I believe, because as soon as you take something serious on there, even if what you're taking seriously is how ridiculous it is for other people to take something seriously, then Al Quaeda / Kony / Voldemort wins. Oh, and they're worse than people who do care about the world (or pretend to care, depending on your viewpoint), because being cynical on Facebook is like acting tough at an aqua aerobics class, or playing hard to get at a speed dating event, or drinking Stella Artois at a fox hunt. As soon as you agreed to Facebook's terms and conditions, you agreed to the notion that you are at least as bad as everyone else on there, and all you are doing by moaning about your friends 'likes' is creating a feedback loop that amplifies the internet's inherent awfulness to the point that we all have intinnitus. And yes, I'm on there, and I am criticising other users, but I'm not actually doing it on Facebook am I. No, I'm doing it on my pretentious blog, which is the appropriate forum for such sordid waffle.
  3. People who aren't really that bothered about stuff.
  4. People, like me, who find heinous things funny as soon as they are displayed through the lens of social networking.

Case in point, I saw this picture the other day, complete with some terribly written, sentimental nonsense from the view-point of one of the dead animals, and I pissed my sides. 



Now usually, dead dogs are not something that I find amusing, but there's just something ridiculously funny about Facebook asking you take the world seriously. It's like seeing Danny Dyer trying to play Macbeth, in that you know it's supposed to be dramatic, but just look at the state of the dopey twat, awkwardly wrapping his gums around it, like a monkey fellating a bayonet.

Also, if you look at the dogs sideways, it is kind of funny, because it looks like they're all stood on top of one another!

Yeah, up till this point the post could have been called, 'Facebook made me laugh at poochicide,' but essentially I am now just guiding you on how to best find amusement from doggy expiration. For which I can only apologise!






*** Have any of you ever tried to deactivate your account on Facebook? It's pretty bizarre!


You'll note that the option you have is to 'deactivate' rather than 'delete,' as there is no way of flushing your account down the web's U-bend available on the site (although there is a website that will systematically delete all of your friends, likes, photos, and posts if you give them your username and password).


Yeah, so even once you're deactivated, you can log back in at any point! It's essentially just like logging out, except the world logs off with you.


Except it's not so easy. When you try to leave, Facebook shows you pictures of you with your friends, saying:


"John will miss you,"


or:


"Linda will miss you,"


but it doesn't work so hot for me, because the algorithms that pick these photos at random always seem to pick the worst possible options:




Jim will miss you

That's a look a like of Jim (on the right) with a female look a like of me. You're not winning me back with this Facebook!


 Anna will miss you

Not even a look a like of me this one, just some guy who dressed a bit like me that my friends wanted me to be aware of. God I hate him.



 Rachel will miss you

Not even a person.


 Amanda will miss you

She can miss me all she likes, because if that's what we end up looking like when we hang out,  we should never, ever do so again.


 Steph will miss you

As the one ex-girlfriend I'm no longer in contact with, I'm guessing that's not actually the case Facebook. Cheers for reminding me of what a twat I've been though!


 George will miss you

If George Galloway has time to pine over my absence from social media sites, then he's clearly not the man I thought he was.

Monday, 26 March 2012

Gurning the Corner

I was at the Craig Charles Funk and Soul Show at 53 Degrees, and Fingers was living up to her name by reaching into my coat pockets and stealing my items. 






This is how I got my revenge:


RECENT MISTAKES

  • Pinching eye make up from Fingers's bag and then applying it to my eyelids to get back at her.

ANALYSIS

This was quite possibly the worst counter strike in the history of vengeance. I can't really work out why I thought painting myself up like half-witted whore would bother her. Oh yeah I can actually, because I was fucked. Really fucked! 

Yish.

I'd taken MDMA too, so I was doing awful things like telling people how much I liked them, and what good pals we were. This should not be the face of sincerity:



I've decided to stop drinking anyway. 

Yes, for real!

I know that I've said that before, but if I stop with the sauce now, it means that when I'm back in Manchester I can spend my limited pennies on things with intrinsic value, such as:

  • Seeing bands
  • Going to classes (the first one I have my eye on is 'harmony singing,' as I'd quite like to set up a barbershop quartet!)
  • Going cinema, theatre, or paying tramps to dance/fight/kiss

Rather than:

  • Cigs
  • Cheap, bleach-based cider drinks
  • Hangover sandwiches


Although possibly:

POTENTIAL MISTAKES

  • Setting up a blog called 'Recent Mistakes,' and then stopping with the juice that results in most of my mishaps.

ANALYSIS

I think to blame all my fuck ups on booze would be to underestimate how spectacularly fucking stupid I can be when I put my mind to it.

Saturday, 24 March 2012

Banana ho.

Aww yeah, you should have seen this smutty looking banana I had at uni!


"Wha-?"


Sshhh, I'm talking!


Anyway, I was at uni yeah, and I got my banana out, and it proper looked like Kate Winslet, when she was posing for that nudey portrait in the smash hit movie 'Titanic.' It was well rude.


I tried to take a photo...


but the results were disappointing... 





That's the best of an incredibly bad bunch, a bunch so bad they made Charles Manson's gang look like a gang of lost and gullible fluffers.



How can I get better at photographing naughty looking fruit? Is there one class for that, or would I have to take:

  • Life painting
  • Still life painting, and
  • Porn directing
I'm not sure how often I will find raunchy looking food, so possibly learning all that would be a massive waste of time? Possibly this whole post is a waste of time?

Anyway, here's Stalin, raping his evil clone to death with his fleshy man sickle.







In other banana news, I took a banana out on a date with me the other week, and the girl who I was out with thought that was pretty weird. What do you think? It wasn't for anything depraved or sexual, I just thought I might fancy a banana at some point. And I did. So I ate it. 


Yum yum!

Deutsch klassischen Schönheit


Sometimes on this blog, you will notice me referring to myself as:

  • A classic German beauty, or
  • A fragile Germanic beauty, and


other variations on that theme.

“Hmmm,” you may be thinking, as your brow furrows like a corn field in sowing season.

But I can explain!

Firstly, I am part Austrian, and I have rich, Aryan blood coursing through my veins. Aryans have a bit of a bad reputation these days, which seems a bit dickish when you consider how hard the last century was for us, in that:



  • We lost both World Wars
  • We were infiltrated by Charlie Chaplin, and then led astray to suit his own nefarious purposes
  • Hair bleach was invented, cheapening blonde hair by making it accessible to the underclass, or peasants as we call them.


Those of you that have studied pictures of my face may wonder why I have dark hair, instead of the classic Aryan blonde.

Well, it was blonde up until about age five, but then it changed out of a misplaced desire to conform. My parents used to take me abroad to fancy places like Majorca and Wales, and people there would disdainfully say:

"Look at that kraut kid,"

and my hair, being the vainest of my organs, decided to transmogrify into the less vibrant shade of dark brown that I currently sport.

"Err... this still doesn't really seem to be explaining it all..."


Okay, but what it is, is that basically, I used to have to work in Germany quite a bit, and whenever I was there, all the fine young fräuleins would gaze at me, as if to say:


"Yowzer, lesen Sie in den wunderschönen britisches Rindfleisch. Ich hätte nichts dagegen eine Platte aus, dass zwischen zwei Stücken von unseren unheimlich süß kontinentalen Brot."


So I deduced that I must be an incredibly beautiful man by German standards, with what must almost certainly be classical features, hence making me a 'classic German beauty.'




Yes, so now that I have explained, I'm sure you will agree that this all makes perfect sense. But obviously, as we say in the fatherland:


"Der Beweis ist im bratwurst,"


or in English:


"The proof is in the pudding."




"Look at our economy fly."

"Techno? Ja, techno."

"And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."
-Friedrich Nietzsche





Friday, 23 March 2012

Teenage? Mutant? Ninja? Turtles?

Yeah, so you've probably heard that in the new, Michael Bay produced, 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' movie, the protagonists will be aliens rather than what their name would actually suggest. This seems to present problems for every single word in that title.




TEENAGE?


The length of a year is different on every planet, as you probably know. So if these aliens were born on Mars they would be teenage there, but in their twenties by our measurements. To be a teenager on Jupiter would make them in their hundreds by our meagre earth years.






MUTANT?


This is perhaps the most stupid element, as it suggests that they are mutants as well as being aliens. So that would mean that they are aliens that don't look like the other aliens from their home world. Which seems... pointless? Or possibly just inaccurate, as the people at Michael Bay's Platinum Dune Studios *** may think the term 'mutant' is interchangeable with 'alien?'






NINJA?


Well, they could be ninja's I suppose, if trained as such. It seems like you'd have to be a pretty irresponsible ninja to train space aliens in the arts of espionage, sabotage, infiltration and assassination though.






TURTLES?


If they are aliens rather than mutated animals, surely it's just offensive to call them 'turtles,' in the same way it would be offensive to call an albino person a 'ferret?'


Choke! Choke on our prejudice!

Yes, so well done Michael Bay, you've somehow managed to take something special and turn it into a racial slur. 





*** Platinum Dune is the studio Michael Bay setup to remake/ruin film franchises. So far they have rebooted/spoiled:


His ultimate goal is to make a machine that replaces every single person from your memory with Shia Labeouf

"How about I give you your first kiss on the night Michael Jackson died? Oh, and we're rebooting you by the way. Your name is Hilary now. Sadly your old name didn't appeal to idiots, so we had to change it. LOL"

*EXPLOSION* *BIGGER EXPLOSIONS* *SOFT PORN* *EXPLOSION AT A REHAB FOR SOFT PORN ACTORS*









Thursday, 22 March 2012

National Health Sausage

I no longer follow the news that keenly, but apparently we have sold all our hospitals to big business?


Click pictures to enlarge


Sorry Ireland, but for an explanation as to why I can be racist against other white/English speaking nations, please see: http://recentmistakes.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/rasism.html




From what I gather, we will still be getting free health care (at least until we run out of infrastructure to sell), but it's definitely more fun to join in with the mass hysteria I reckon, so here I go!


IT'S THE BEGINNING OF THE END!


I HEARD THAT UNLESS YOU PAY FIFTY MILLION QUIDS UP FRONT, THEY WON'T KEEP REMOVING IT NO MORE!


I THINK MY GIRLFRIEND IS SLEEPING WITH THE LOCH NESS MONSTER BEHIND MY BACK!


All comments that I've seen on Facebook, or made up just now. Powerful stuff.


Anyway, that's enough of that, because I've actually come up with a solution!


If the corporation from the 'Alien' film franchise is going to start charging us for all our health care, why don't we all just get really fucking healthy out of spite?


"Genius!" you cry! "But how... how we make health good?"


With these five easy steps, that's how!



  • Instead of snorting that ounce of nonsense you just bought, why not use your nose to sniff the seat of the exercise bike at your local gym?
  • Instead of spending 8 hours a day sat in your office chair, crumpled up like a disused puppet, why not get a job as a scarecrow to correct that posture?

  • Instead of having eight bacon and and goat's cheese barm cakes today, why not have eight bacon and goat's cheese barm cakes and an apple?
  • Instead of having unprotected sex with prostitutes, why not offer money to smiling women you see walking out of STI clinics?
  • Instead of smoking all those cigarettes, why not run a marathon?



To be honest, I could probably shorten that five down to just one:

  • Do the exact opposite of what your instincts tell you to do at all times.

If, as a species, we can make our minds and bodies healthy, maybe those aliens that have been hanging around the planet will want to finally come down and say hello?







Anyway, back to POLITICS.


I'm not entirely sure why we're so poor now, while countries like India are raking it in, but someone explained the science of it to me as:


Tiny country + A generation of people who quit their Film Studies degree to go travelling around South East Asia = Bad econononomies


Which is shit, because I'm pretty sure that The Beatles, and all those other sixties turds, promised us that we could just constantly have a good time and everything would work out fine! I mean, like most people, I go out every weekend to enjoy myself, and somehow the world just keeps getting worse! 


What's it going to take to get back on track? A three month long satellite rave taking place in the nation's abandoned libraries? An extra special episode of '10 O'Clock Live,' in which David Mitchell draws a cock on Nick Clegg's face? A new flavour of Innocent Smoothies with a picture of a poorly banana on the carton?






If things carry on in this fashion, I may even be tempted to e-sign something. You know, if someone sends me a link via Facebook that is. Maybe we should set up a petition to make the government actually pay attention petitions? Or would that be like firing a water pistol at a shark?




"But wait a nipple flicking minute," you cry. "Are you criticising us? Surely it's the bankers, the hedge fund gardeners, the politicians, and Kony who are the bad guys?"


Yeah, they're worse than us, but making fun of those guys is like shooting fish in a barrel with a bazooka at this point. Plus, if you're like me and you complain about the world whilst simultaneously doing NOTHING to make it better, you're really not beyond criticism. But then again, few are. 


For example:


Superman totally used his X-Ray vision to check out girls.






Jesus was a poor strategist.






And Saint Sebastian was a shit pisser. ***








To be honest, I'm even worse than you now, as I don't even complain about the world since I worked out how much funny material the sheer, grinding horror of it all actually provides.


To evil gentlemen! To evil!










*** I've actually stolen the term 'shit pisser.' It was written on a yellow post it note, as part of a list of potential band names at a friends practice room. The group in question are actually called, 'Skin the Young,' and as you'd expect from a metal band, are thoroughly nice chaps. Cheers for the filthy idea anyway guys!