The Sims.

The Sims is one of those games that girls love because they can create their dream hunk, then create themselves, and make them marry, and boys love because they can create a mashed up family and set them on fire. The original Sims concept is pretty amazing, and the creators at one point must have had the amazing idea to create "expansion packs": a series of smaller, cheaper editions that add certain new abilities, gameplay options and furniture etc. Up to now, dozens of expansion packs have been created, for both the original and the sequel. There's the University one, the Nightlife one, the Business one, the Holiday one, the Party one and now, as my sister bought the other day, there's the Pets one. But when will the madness end? When will the creators of this game cease to churn out expansion pack after expansion pack? The whole premise of The Sims is that it's a life simulator, and yet there seem to be so many things that they have missed out. Here are some possible expansion packs that would make the game that whole inch better:

• The Sims 2: Rape edition. Currently you can only "woohoo", as the game calls it, with another consenting adult Sim. That doesn't make sense, does it? That's not what happens in real life. Your Sim should be able to select another Sim and choose "rape" at any given time, and some Sims will be better suited to it than others. For example, a Sim who's created with a beard and a trenchcoat will have a higher "rape" ability option than another Sim. There will even be the option for "medium frottage" or even a "quick grope". You can also set one Sim to be another's "stalker", where as you play the game, you sometimes see the stalking sim pop up from behind a bush or a large tree.
  


• The Sims 2: Drugs edition. Your Sims can take an array of various drugs, which they'll find and possibly get hooked on when you throw a party. Then you can use the phone to ring a dealer, or maybe just talk to one who stands outside your house. Different Sims have different addiction levels, and when they get to a certain level their health starts deteriorating and they must be sent to rehab for an uncertain amount of time. Sims who are richer are more likely do become addicted to coke, whilst the poorer ones will opt for heroin. The Sims can break into other Sims' houses in order to steal enough money for a fix, and can even get arrested. Actually, the more I think about this, the more amazing it sounds.


• The Sims 2: Fascism edition. Sims have hatred for various things. Some Sims may hate women; some may hate black people. If a black Sim tries to make friends with your racist Sim, your racist Sim will try his or her best to throw stones at him. You could also make a family where the man hates women and the woman hates confrontation, and then you can select the option of "domestic violence". This could also be coupled with "Drugs", and the Sim could have a fondness for Stella Artois and crack cocaine. Included with this pack will be extra household decorations such as Union Flags and Nazi propaganda posters, and the new "Hitler" and "String vest" clothing will be unlocked.


• The Sims 2: Milk edition. Lots of milk everywhere. Your Sims can now buy milk from a milk vendor, and milk is a new edition to the fridge options. Whilst Sims could formerly only be male or female, there is now a new third option: Milk. The wardrobe has been updated: 50 different milk costumes, and the families can throw milk parties where they shower each other with milk. If the Drugs expansion pack is installed, Sims can get addicted to milk and end up falling ill of milk poisoning.

Sims 2 developers, read this and learn. Maybe share the ideas around. I think we could make millions. Or get arrested. Millions or arrested. Either's good.

The X Factor.

People generally learn from their mistakes. When a child touches a hot object, it learns that it must not repeat it, lest it be burnt again. When a child refuses to eat its greens, it learns that it must not repeat it, lest it be put back in "the cage" again. So how, I ask you, can a show as abhorrent as The X Factor be televised for at least 3 whole fucking seasons? Here's a mistake: That Steve twat from the first season. Now learn.

The basic premise of The X Factor, and all its previous takes, is a talent show which ironically contains not a glimpse of talent. The X Factor is around to help out "talent" that can't be recognised by record producers. There's a reason why you're not being recognised, love: You're shit. I mean, every so often there is a contestant with a shred of ability. PSYCHE. It's about deciding which act is the least shit, and then paying excessive amounts of money to keep them and their cancerous egos in the game.

So out come the act, and they squeak out their pitiful music for a painful 5 minutes; it's either a Diana Ross parrot squark or a stomach churning rendition of "Wind Beneath My Wings" or some other wedding-party-slow-dance classic. Then the judges make their decision:

Louis Walsh: That was tremendous! Best act I've ever heard!
Audience: Yaaaaaay!
Louis Walsh: Ho ho, yes- fantastic. I can see you guys going really far!
Audience: Wooooo!
Sharon Osbourne: Faaaaaaaaaaabulous darlin', very juschy! Vogue! etc
Audience: Horraaaaaaaay!
Simon Cowell: Shit. Absolutely fucking awful. The worst thing I've ever heard. I hope you all get AIDS.
Audience: Booooooo!

Oh my god! That Simon Cowell is such a meanie! He's always saying such nasty things about these talentless idiots! No, Simon Cowell is a sycophant; the other judges are just even more sycophantic than him. If it were up to me, I'd just take out a sawn-off shotgun and blast them off the stage before they get to hit that high note in "Lovin' you".

Then you get the novelty acts; the "rockers", the "comedy acts" and the "gays". The rock acts are the worst ones, because it's so horribly fake that it makes me want to vomit thick, curdled blood. If you actually were a "rocker", you'd play at small bars and pubs, work your way up, get an addiction to heroin and die in a pool of your own vomit. People who do McFly-esque rock songs on the X-factor are faux-rock. However you market yourself- however long your hair is- you're still a pop star. It's pitiful. Maybe a chaotic mathcore/metalcore band should audition for The X Factor. That'd tear some shit up.

One of the most painful things about The X Factor is that it strives too hard to be politically correct. Now, I'm a very politically correct person myself, but when they fill the show with so many retards, gays and blacks, it just feels overdone. If you made out some statistics during the original auditions, you'd find that the Mpm (misfits per minute) equals about 36. And they always play that twinkly music over the top. That's the first sign. Any perceptive viewer will recognise when a sob story is coming up from the "emotional" music that starts playing. Here are some good examples of harrowing stories of bravery:

• Exploded by a car bomb.
• Looking after their disabled mother.
• Had arms eaten by a bear.
• Weigh about 30 stone.
  
• Fell down a mineshaft at the age of seven.
• Had their family slaughtered during the apartheid.
• Have a really, really ugly face.
  

It's ridiculous the amount of people who get through because of a disability. Oh, I'm not meant to say someone's disabled; it's "differently abled". Bullshit, you're not differently abled. I can walk, you cannot. It's actually unfair, though, because people who are broken actually get further than people who aren't. Yes, it's nice that everyone gets a fair chance, but when someone with an alright voice and no legs get through, as opposed to someone with a better voice and 1 leg, it's just unfair.

Announcer: "This is Barbara. When Barbara was 6, she was walking to the shops to buy a Twix and a Capri Sun, when she was jumped by a group of angry otters. Barbara tried to fight them off, but they attached their claws and teeth to her nubile skin and gave her third degree otter scratches. She tried to call out for help, but they blocked her mouth and nose with their fuzzy little bodies."
Barbara: "I sing to drown out the memories."

Blogs part two: Shit and shitter.

I originally intended for "Blogs." to be a one-off bitchfest. Unfortunately, the other day I was smacked in the face with a blog so painfully abhorrent that I was forced to stab myself in the temples several times with a spoon.

If there's anything that I hate more than babies, it's people who believe that their babies are thinking the exact same things that they, the moronic parents, are thinking. This type of disgusting logic is generally abused by advertisers, who make adverts for cat food by making the cat audibly think, "Yum! Meaty chunks soaked in the finest beef jelly!" or some other asinine bollocks. People watch these adverts, and are obviously swayed by the little kitty's wishes. Of course, in reality, the cat's probably thinking, "Oh shit. That gangly cunt's given me duck labias again". The same is utilised in adverts for nappies, where the baby is given a squeaky 30 year old's voice, and is commenting on how huggably dry this new nappy really is! No. Babies couldn't give two shits. It's a fucking baby. Do you remember being 3 months old? Because I sure as shit don't. Babies are just lumps that lie there, whilst their disgustingly doting parents shove various differently coloured bobble hats on them. They don't understand what's going on, and consequently, they don't give a fuck whether Pampers Baby-Dry absorbs 25% more liquid than other leading brands.

And so, that brings me to the afore-mentioned blog. This blog, awesomely named "Griffin's Diary", is a constantly updated blog about little ol' Griffin's early, and insanely dull, life. So, the first entry in this blog is dated May the 4th and baby Griffin is, at this point, about 16 weeks old. Here is the entry:

"Mom and Dad have been telling everyone that they are having a baby for quite a while now, but today was my first real introduction.

Now they know I'm a boy!"

Wait wait wait. Am I correct in thinking that this in the first person? Is this the 16 week old baby's inner thoughts I'm reading here? Now, if my knowledge of gestation periods is correct, that means that the foetus is only a couple of weeks into its second trimester. If you were to ask your doctor, "Does my foetus understand its own existence?" the doctor would have to officially give you a roundhouse kick to the throat for asking something "so retarded". But no, the parents who were thick enough to call their child "Griffin" are clearly also thick enough to believe that their child has conscious thoughts. Or maybe not; maybe the kid is a baby genius, like in that early 90s film with the baby geniuses of which I can't remember the name.

It's stupid though, how parents have this deluded view of their children's intelligence. Here's a breakdown of the emotions that babies, up until the age of about 1 years old, have:

• Hunger.
  
• Tiredness.
  
• Pain.
  
• Indifference.
  

And a list of the emotions that babies are not capable of:

• Anger.
  
• Resentment.
  
• Jealousy.
  
• Empathy.
  
• Love.
  
• Hatred.
  
• Excitement.
• Shame
  
• Stress.
  
• Depression.
  
• Compassion.
  
• Rebellion.
  
• Aspiration.
  
• Hilarity.

And if only Griffin's parents had consulted me prior to starting their blog, they wouldn't have had to anger me by writing something like:

"Thank goodness mom got an epidurel, because I'm pretty upset and every time I kick her she gets a major contraction."

You're not upset you pink, fat little tosser. You're not anything! Ouch, so that's compassion and empathy there. Matt, 2 - Parents, 0.

Another blog entry:

"...if I can't go back in, then quit flashing that light at me, I don't wanna people seeing pictures of me in this condition."

Do I see anger, shame and hilarity there? Matt, 5 - Parents, 0.

And then:

"Snip, snip? HELLO? I was born with that... don't I need it? You know, when I'm older and surprise them with a piercing or tattoo, I'm reminding mommy and daddy that they were the ones who set the precedent for body modifications."

Rebellion and aspiration. Matt, 7 - Parents, still 0.

Finally:

"Second, mommy and daddy weren't paying attention and they put a shirt and bottom on me instead of a onesie. When I moved around inside of my blanket, it rubbed my cord stub. It hurt a lot and it even started bleeding everywhere, but they didn't notice for at least half an hour. They felt really bad. After all that, I was just pretty worked up. The next round of feeding, I was still pretty cranky."

Resentment, hatred, and retarded parents. Matt wins, parents lose.

Bringing sexy back: The mission.

The other day whilst flicking through the channels on my televisual device, I came across one Mr Justin Timberlake. Mr Timberlake was singing a song that detailed his intentions to "bring sexy back". However, from the lyrics and video, I felt slightly unsure that he had succeeded in his quest. Instead of making me content with his bringing back of "sexy", I instead felt somewhat confused: Why, for example, was the woman spying on him in her bra? Why, I ask, was she spying on him in the first place? Perhaps she was investigating what the fuck the song is actually about.

Feeling disgruntled and somewhat non-aroused (note the motif), I decided that it was now in my hands, and my hands alone, to bring sexy back. Justin Timberlake had failed, and if nobody did anything about it, the world was sure to become a purely unsexy place. So I put on my sexy hat, stretched up my sexy pants and brushed my teeth.. sexily. This was going to be dangerous. Sexily dangerous.

My first port of call was to go to the place where "sexy" was invented. Obviously, this place is Denmark, but taking a flight to that bacon-filled country was not as enjoyable as you may imagine. I got frisked, but it wasn't sexy; I got complimentary peanuts, but they weren't sexy. In fact, very few things in that airport were sexy. This was a horrible sight. Clearly the world was becoming a dark, desolate place, somewhat not dissimilar to the great sexy drought of 1456, when thousands of villages were left for years without a single pair of suspenders or even a measly push-up bra. Disgusting.

When finally in Denmark, I needed to find the great mage of sexiness. Asking around, I found that his abode was situated at the top of tallest mountain in Denmark. Fortunately, since the tallest mountain in Denmark, the Himmelbjerget, died of AIDS in 1013, the next tallest mountain is only 5 feet above the ground. Nontheless, it was still a strenuous effort climbing up all of those 8 steps to his front door.

The man who stood in front of me upon opening the door was the most tremendous thing that has ever raped my eyes. Here is an accurate drawing of him:


I could understand how this man was so sexy: he had modelled sexiness on his own appearance. He had dildos for arms, penises for legs, a thousand breasts and a large vagina for a face. He was the epitome of sexiness; he was the archetype for which all sexiness is modelled. The last time I'd seen such an amazing cuntface, I was watching "The Naked Chef". He invited me in, and offered me a drink. "A large pint of Guinness please, mate", I asked. Unfortunately, Guinness was not a sexy enough drink, he told me. As I was about to throw him through a plate glass window, he stopped me, and handed me a swirling green concoction. "What is this?", I asked. "That", he slopped out of his slack fanny gob, "Is the sexiest drink ever created." I was a little sickened, and it obviously showed. "Drink's on me", he said, smiling, "Go ahead. Be gone with it." I looked more hesitant. "Go ahead child. Be gone with it", he responded. Plucking up the courage, I downed the swirling stew in one gulp that would impress even Paris Hilton herself.

As the slimey swirling concoction curdled itself around my tonsils, I felt something very funny going on inside my loins. The world started spinning, and I was blasted through a vortex of time and space. When my feet finally hit terra cotta, I realised that I was no longer in the presence of Mr Sexy, but was in fact standing in a large, barren field. I ran and I ran. I did this because it's what they do in the films. Fortunately, Hollywood once again didn't fail me, and I came across a dark, mysterious cave. Walking inside, and lighting a match off my sexy back, I found the cave to be very cavenous indeed. I asked the helpful woman at the information desk beside me to give me some advice. She gave me a large map and told me to follow the yellow line to the "Sexy Guru", and he would answer all of my questions.

I followed the line like Kate Moss, and was soon confronted by the Sexy Guru himself. I asked him "how do I bring sexy back?" He pondered for a second, before responding with, "You cannot bring sexy back. Sexy is long gone. Sexiness was just a fashion; just a passing phase. It is futile. Give up."

I was disgusted. How could the sexy guru himself say something so slanderous and strangely eloquent for someone who's lived in a cave all his life? At that point, I realised that something was seriously wrong. Leaping up, I grabbed hold of the Sexy Guru's wrinkled face and pulled hard. His face tore away easily, and below it lay a tremendous sight: Mr. Justin Timberlake!

"B-b-b-but why?", asked I.

"You can never bring sexy back!", he tromboned. "I destroyed it, and I will make sure no-one ever brings it back, by means of sickeningly bland music!"

"Noo!", I nooed. "You can't do that you slanderous cunt! Sexiness will prevail! It always does!"

"Never!", he nevered, and he pulled out a pair of pliers. "You want this in your fucking head, you little shit? You want me to put these in your fucking skull?"

He took a single swipe at me, I ducked below with the grace of a goose, and gave him a soft jab backwards.

"Aaaaaagh!", he screamed, as he tripped over backwards. With a sickening crunch, he landed backwards on a splintered shard of his ego, made one last girly falsetto tone, and drooped down, dead. With that, this creamy, mist-like substance started pouring out of the hole in his torso, and flowed out of the entrance of the cave, searching for daylight. It had finally happened: the imprisoned sexy had been released.

Take 'em to the conclusion:

I felt my feet lift the ground again, and I was transported back to Mr Sexy's Danish hovel. A tear glistened on his cheek, and his eyes twinkled like stars. I found this to be slightly cliched, but I wasn't too bothered at this point.

"You've done it", he happily sobbed, "You've brought sexy back!"

"I did it for you, Mr Sexy", I responded.

"Just call me dad", he replied.

"Dad?"

"Yes, that's right. You thought your father had been killed in a tragic kiting accident, but that was all a lie. I am your father, and you've done me proud." Tears were streaming down his face, now.

"So that means-", I started.

"Yes, boy. You are the son of sexy."

And from then on, I was known as the son of sexy. The people rejoiced; the world became a better place, I got about a thousand myspace friends, and people were all generally sexier to each other. And I knew that I, single handedly, had completed my goal: I had brought sexy back.

Personal ads.

Relationships are an integral part of our lives as humans. We are fundamentally built to find someone, copulate and blast out a couple of sprogs who will spend their lives fulfilling the same futile cycle. Cynicism aside, we spend our lives searching for shags, finding our fucks and hunting for humps (and I ain't talking about camels). People do this in several ways: meeting friends of friends; going to clubs and bars; discussing your dogs whilst walking through a park; meeting someone at a KKK rally, etc. A simpler route that many people cycle down is that of personal ads. Personal ads are, basically, a 20 word confession of the end of your life. Every time someone writes into personal ads, or even seriously read them, their life slides another metre down the slippery slope to loserdom.

INTERMISSION:

I hate that stupid bitch Gillian McKeith. Stupid, anorexic, sanctimonious little twat of a pseudo-doctor. You are what you eat, eh? Then you must eat a sack of cunt every day.

INTERMISSION OVER.

So anyway, where was I? (check that usage of conversational devices to create a sense of a free-flowing and natural writing style) Oh yeah, I was talking about personal ads. They're pathetic. The worst kind of personal ads are the variety in which the mental image is that of Hugh Hefner, but without the money, fame or charisma. Here's an example:

Yes, it's normal for people's standards to slip dramatically as they age. In some cases, however, people seem to do the exact inverse of this. Maybe they come to the conclusion that if they've not had "any" in about 40 years, they may as well state their dream partner, and if it happens: Horah. It's somewhat like playing all or nothing in a poker hand, although when you're writing into the lonely hearts section of the Metro, I doubt that you'll be getting "all".

Actually, reading the Metro on the bus today, (see my previous blog entry for more bus fun!), I turned the page to an interesting sight: what the newspaper had hilariously punned, "Metrosexual". What this basically was, was a stalker's alternative to the standard, in this case pretty damn cool, lonely hearts section of newspapers. The premise of "Metrosexual" is that losers write in with gems such as "You get on the 36 line from Edgeley to Rushholme at 7:05 every morning. You usually sit near the back, and you wiggle your bum as you walk past. I've always wanted to talk to you, but I am too shy". Wow, what a clever idea! So, what happens? At 7:05 in the morning, Miss Wigglybum gets onto her normal bus, walks past that odd looking man that she sees most days, unglues a metro from the clammy seat, turns to page 25 and finds the love of her life staring at her both from the page and from 2 seats in front.

"Oh my god", she gasps. "Are you- are you Norman?"

"Yes, I-I-I am!", shy ol' Norman retorts.

"I've noticed you around; I find you quite attractive. Will you go to bed with me?", she asks.

"Y-y-y-yes I will! OMIGOD!", Norman splutters.

"Psych! Fucking pervert paedo." comes the reply.




That night Norman hangs himself.

Generic pop bullshit.

"Hello to all the listeners out there! I'm DJ Twat and this is the DJ Twat power hour. All the greatest new music coming at you for 60 whole minutes! First up, another talentless bunch of middle-class student wankers playing on their regional accents and scruffy appearances!"

Ah, yes- pop music. From the bowl-haired Beatles to the skanky-looking Spice Girls, pop music has steadily progressed from one tedium to another. The new wave of pop music, or should I call it a tsunami, is that of "indie" pop/rock. If you're not quite sure what indie is, I'll give you a little insight:

Take 5 lads in their first year of university, give them some alcohol and ruffle up their hair a bit. Now, give each one an instrument; it doesn't matter which one gets which, as none of them can play anything or sing anyway. Make sure the lead vocalist is the one with the strongest accent, whether it be geordie, liverpudlian, cockney or mancunian. If he doesn't have one of these accents, the band won't be successful. Now for the guitarists: they'll have to learn 3 chords (maybe a fourth in case a difficult song-writing scenario comes up), and make sure they evenly jam the plectrum into each one. Any sort of polyrhythms or creativity here won't work; make sure they don't attempt to do so at all costs. We'll also need another person with a guitar to play the same chords but an octave higher. Got a hi-hat? Got a snare? Got a bassdrum? Great- you: hit them. Wait, what else do we need? Oh yes, we need someone to play the same thing as the guitarists but with 5 less strings and much lower. Ah, the bassist. Your lack of talent will be made up for by all the rough looking groupies you'll shag. The joy of joys.

So, we've got the band; we've got the music (well obviously- if you've written one song you've written them all), but something's missing: a name. The band puts their heads together, their scruffy little faces deep in concentration. "Alreet", says the vocalist in his meaty accent, "Ah've gots an idea, lads! 'ows abaht..", they all look up: "The Thes!" The guitarist has a look of pure elation on his face, "I can see it", he squeals, "I can see that on the posters! The Thes, live at Wembley! We can do this, guys; it could work!"

And so off they go on tour, doing coke, shagging random jail-bait groupies, droning out repetitive lyrics and bland tunes, and generally living the high-life. Their hit single, "I'm pretty certain that you have lovely tits", gets blasted out of every speaker in every HMV, and Zane Lowe sits on his magic floating sofa spouting off about how awesomely radical this new band, The Thes, really are.

5 weeks later, and no-one's heard of them. The guitarist goes back to University, and ends up getting a law degree. The bassist now has 3 kids and a retreat in Suffolk. The drummer spends his times playing Halo 2 in his bedroom, every so often venturing out to say a few words on "100 Greatest Sellotape Retailers" on Channel 4. No-one knows what happened to the other guitarist: some say he fled to Nepal, others say he lives in Cornwall. The lead singer, and his thick regional accent, has now converted to Buddhism and spends his days in a hut on a hill, hugging hares.

Every day there's a new band out like this, and every day I hate the world just that little bit more.

Bath bombs.

Last night I was lying in the bath, thinking over all my past bathing experiences (as you do). My mind was cast back to an event that happened maybe a year or two ago. I was running a bath, and because I needed to relax after a long day of mutilating corpses, decided that I should add some form of oil or bath salts to the hot water to generally grease it up a bit. Searching around, I found what has been expertly named a "bath bomb". Fuck yes, thought I. This was going to be hardcore; this is like the IRA of bathing. A muddafuggin' bath bomb, I tell you. My imagination created a scenario somewhat like Hiroshima: clouds of fragrant smoke billowing out from under the taps and porcelain. Maybe I hoped it would be like that to somewhat lessen the fact that I had already completely emasculated myself. At this point I had about the testosterone of a brick. A female brick.

But alas, the bathbomb was actually a ball of crunchy purple crap, with petals shoved in it. That's right: Petals. No, not pedals. Not pendants. Petals. Who the fuck thought that one up? "I have an idea gals", says the business woman for the bathbomb company, "Women like flowers, right? And women like baths. Let's combine the two, and have petals in the bath! It'll be all romantic, like. Summat what like from Sleepless In Seattle!" To which all the women sigh dreamily. No, you're not Meg Ryan. Fuck off.

So anyway, I nonchalantly dropped the bathbomb into the water, and then it happened: A

PETALSPLOSION!

Run for your lives! Petals everywhere! Oh god, the carnage! The children are screaming! Why? Why o' god, why? Aagh! My house has been destroyed by petal shrapnel! Oh jesus, my cat! My cat's been crushed! The horror; the bloodshed; the aftermath.

Is exactly what didn't happen.

What actually happened is that that dud shit of a bomb fizzled away into nothingness, leaving behind half of the chelsea flower show in its wake. The water was a lurid purple colour, reminiscient of a melted Barney. Getting in was like taking a swim in porridge: sloppy petals stuck themselves onto my skin like leeches.

As I lay in the depth of my flooded interflora, I tried to relax the best I could. Unfortunately, this proved difficult, and I was forced to get out, peeling petal after petal from my arse crack. Once the plug had been pulled out, another problem arose. Here's a comprehensive breakdown:

Things that did go down the drain	Things that didn't go down the drain
Water. My dignity.	Petals. Purple colouring.

This resulted in me, essentially, getting down on my hands and knees. No, I haven't lost quite that amount of my masculinity yet, you dirty fuck. I'm referring to the 8 WHOLE HOURS (give or take 8 hours) that it took for me to pull out every single petal from that porcelain coffin, and scrub the purple scum ring that was around the sides.

Next time I need to relax I'm going to just castrate myself with a breadknife.

Blogs.

Blogs are shit. Can you see the top right hand corner of this window, where it says "next blog"? Click that, and see where it takes you. I have an idea: Shitsville. It's unbelievable; it's unfathomable the sheer magnitude of dull shit there is on the internet. Just before, using this random blog button, I found a ridiculously hilarious blog. Did I say ridiculously hilarious blog? Oh, sorry- I mean "blog which makes me want to give myself a vasectomy with a spoon".

So, first things first, the blog is pink, and the title has hearts in it. Ah yes, the archetypical internet fangirl. Here's a snippet of "Kai Lynn's" description of herself: "I'm not your average girl. I keep a diary, I write stories and music. I play the guitar and piano. I'm also into fashion studies."

Wait wait wait, let me stop you there. Not your average girl? You keep a diary, you write stories and you like fashion? Oh dear god, you're about as feminine as Bruce Willis. In fact, I don't know any girls who keep diaries. Moreover, I have no knowledge of any girls who like fashion. I mean, girls and clothes? When did that happen?

So, she's asked the random question by blogger, "You get to ride the big roller coaster three times in a row. What will keep your dad from taking a bite out of your candy apple?" and answers with the wit and intelligence of Steven Fry: "My Dad hates sweet stuff....he wouldn't even let me get one for myself! LOL"

LOL indeed Kai Lynn, LOL indeed. Actually, I am laughing so much at that joke that I can hardly contain myself. He wouldn't let you get a candy apple? Wouldn't he? That's not a laughing matter you silly little bitch! Your dad's a cunt! What a fucking prick! He doesn't like sweet food so he disallows you from having any? What an utter shitstick. That's the type of behaviour that fucks kids up, and this girl's only 14. Say a mother is afraid of dogs, and therefore doesn't allow the child to be around dogs, the child is going to grow up fearing dogs in the same way the mother did. That's unfair; passing on fears is "totally uncool" as the kids say nowadays.

This whole affair was very disconcerting. I was upset and aroused. I did the only thing I could: I confronted Kai Lynn's father. Hacking into the system mainframe of her blog, discombobulating her iostream and reconfigering her bios system ISO, I found out her address. I instantly took a plane to this "canada" place, and rang her doorbell. The man who answered the door was chinese in height and appearance and seemed to be wearing what could only be described as "shorts". I asked him in my broadest chinese accent, "Harro. Do you have a daughter named Kai Rynn?" He answered my question with the affirmitive, "Yes". Using my knowledge of genetics and astrophysics, I managed to deduce that this man must be her father. With that, I did the only thing that I could think of: I pushed him into the path of an oncoming lorry. My job complete, I flew all the way back to my hovel.

Once I was back home, I checked back on her blog. A new entry had been made, which went somewhat like: "My dad is dead!", or something to that degree. Excited, I looked in her profile. The question was still the same, but the answer had changed dramatically. It now read simply: "I have no dad anymore, but now I can eat all the candy apples I want LOL!"

Another job well done, Matthew. Another job well done.

Buses.

People like travelling. It is something we fundamentally do. If I had control over the world, I'd make everything built inside or within a few metres of my house. Unfortunately, however, that is not the way; people like travelling, and because of this, people have invented amazing ways of doing so. From the skateboard to the aeroplane; the rollerskates to the giant cannon we all have in our gardens, people are constantly finding new methods of getting from point A to point B, or in some circumstances, to point R. But one integral part of society, and a method that at least tens of people a day utilise, is the "bus".

Buses were invented in 1268 by Sir Henry Bus, although the engine had not been invented at that point, so it wasn't until 1885 that anyone recognised his efforts. Unfortunately, Sir Henry couldn't be congratulated for his efforts at that point because he was too dead.

When I was a child, I loved buses. I thought they were exciting; lots of interesting people to look at: blacks, disableds, ugly people- it was generally a fun experience for me and whoever was abducting me at the time. Now at the grand old age of 18, however, my stance on the matter has seriously changed. Buses are no longer something to be adored; they are something to be abhorred. They're noisy, they stink, they're full of scrotes, they're expensive and they don't fly. What's the point, I ask you? On the website "buslovers.com", one person mentioned that he "couldn't get off unless he felt the vibrations and sweaty stench not uncommon of buses". Another lady mentioned, "I have a strong atraction [sic] to bus drivers. There's something about the moustaches and rolls of fat that really pushes my buttons! Sometimes I even get on and off the same bus several times just to fix my eyes upon their vacant, sexual stare."

But not everyone is aroused by buses. Some people find buses incredibly unerotic! I was talking to a man on the bus the other day, who mentioned that he's never reached an orgasm whilst doing the 42 line. I was flabbergasted! Never reached orgasm on the 42 line? But that's the most erotic of all lines! Some would argue, of course, that the 42x has a much deeper, mysterious sexuality to it, but to mention that a bus is a positive turn-off is beyond the boundaries of my imagination. Of course, I did what any good, honest, English citizen would do: I smashed his face in with a brick. But apart from causing him serious discomfort, what good is it to do that? He is one of many people who still view buses as nothing more than a large metal contraption built to transport several people at a time from one pre-destined point to another. The ignorance! Buses are so much more. Have you ever dined a bus? I'll tell you this: They have excellent table manners, and can tell fantastic anecdotes.

So let this be a message to you all: Next time you get on a bus, don't just take it for granted. Talk to it, stroke it, kiss it. If it doesn't respond, talk louder. People may look at you strangely, but that's because they're odd and they don't understand. Remember that buses are beautiful creatures, and need to be respected.

Not respected enough to pay 1 fucking 20 for a 15 minute journey though.

Getting "fuck all", and then not bothering to do it.

Today I did fuck all. I did fuck all for 10 hours. The Oxford English Dictionary defines fuck all as:

"A lack of anything; voidness of effort or endeavours. Fuck all, basically."

Although, admittedly, I thought this to be rather informal for the Oxford English Dictionary, it changed my perspective on my earlier statement. I've not done fuck all. I've managed to procrastinate from doing fuck all.

It all happened at exactly 2:03pm this afternoon. I was sitting around doing fuck all, when suddenly everything felt slightly odd. It was a feeling that I couldn't quite put my finger on. I attempted to put my thumb and my third toe on it, but I was disappointedly unsuccessful. The closest way of describing it would be somewhat like time around me had frozen still.

Looking around, I noticed that everything was stood still: the steady dripping of human blood from the room upstairs was now just a column of droplets, frozen still; the sound of moaning from beneath me stopped completely, and a deadly silence (as opposed to the deadly screaming) punctuated the air like an asterisk.

Then something rather perculiar and moderately arousing happened: the series of blood droplets started to steadily move upwards, and a sound was eminating from the walls, somewhat like "!!hhhgggggaaaaaa". Yes, it had finally happened. I'd become so lazy, I'd

GONE BACKWARDS IN TIME LOL.

Oh shit, thought I. The world was going back in time at a faster, and faster rate. I could actually feel the hairs on my head sliding back into my scalp. I must do something, I thought. So I pushed, and I pushed. No, I wasn't attempting to birth an invisible baby; I was trying to actually not do fuck all. I forced my fingers to bend with all my might. I strained and shook, beads of sweat trickling down my ugly little face as I willed my fingers to close inwards. At last, the task was accomplished, and the decrease in time was starting to.. well.. decrease. Now for the task of standing up. Pushing myself onto my feet took a good few minutes, but the results were excellent: time was now nearly still again. Finally, I took the final step. Literally. I actually took a step forwards. That did it; time once again was back to normal.




I am now 3 years old.

Cleaning.

Every so often I get the sudden urge to clean. I don't know why it is; in fact, it scares me somewhat. Most of my life I live in the most disgusting squalor, but then every-so-often I will just tidy and clean. Obviously this is short lived, and lasts for about 10 minutes before my bedroom is like Dresden all over again. Today I started cleaning my room, mainly because I've bought a new CD player and needed to clear enough space out of the dead bodies that line every surface of my bedroom to actually fit it in.

As I was picking up a dismembered limb that was stuck behind my shelves, I noticed a small hole in the carpet. Lifting the edges of the carpet up, I realised that this hole was not actually as small as I imagined; it was, in fact, 50 feet wide. Considering my options, I decided that I had nothing better to do, so I jumped down. At that point, it was official: I was on

A ADVENCHUH.

The hole was incredibly deep. Possibly 5 kilometres, a foot and a centiyard. Approximately. When I hit the bottom, I was confused and marginally aroused. The walls were dripping with god-knows-what and the air was punctuated with the sounds of kittens in the distance. Overjoyed, I ran and ran, trying to follow the incessant mewing, only to keep hitting dead ends. I was right fucked off at this point. My desire to hug some baby cats was so overwhelming I did a little cry from my eyes. I asked a portly gentleman for directions, but he only seemed to speak french, in a squeaky tone not unlike a moomin. Using my knowledge of year 7 french, I opened my slack gob and foghorned "JAVOODREY, UN PETIT LIASONS DANS LA MASON DE CAFE, POR FAVOREY?" He clearly understood what I was asking, as he pointed in the direction of a large green door. As I walked through the door, the mewing instantly stopped and was replaced with the sound of giraffes. Understanding that this room was obviously filled with giraffes and not kittens, I turned back and ran towards the frenchman, shouting in my broadest french accent. "LA ORDINATOR DANS LA RESISTANCE LE MORTE DE MANGER EINEN KATZE YOU CUNT", I honked, somewhat like a goose. But alas, the frenchman was no longer there! "That cunt", thought I, "he's given me shitty fucking directions and then fucked off. No wonder we conquered france and made them all live in the sea, the stupid fucking 'tard."

Giving up, I walked back in the direction I came from, hoping to be able to find a portal back to my desolate and yet quaint bedroom. I was starting to get bored of this place, and I craved the sweet embrace of my own room. At that point, I suddenly stopped. I had had an epiphany: I had never left my bedroom at all! That bastard Neil Buchanan! That stupid fucking cunt!

Paracetemol, my arse.