The Imaginatively And Totally Originally Named Adventures Of Punch God

3 O’ clock, not a regular wake-up time for most people, however Punch God was not in the category for regular people. Declaring it Punch O’Clock, he punched his way out of bed to have his delightful early morning breakfast. Before fighting the shit out of crime. You see, Punch God was no ordinary citizen, for he was *SPOLIER ALERT* the God of punches. He could punch a punch so punchfully that anyone who dared to punch the punch would surely end up punched right in his punch so hard he could never punch again. Punch. So, with the acknowledgement of his incredible abilities, he declared that anyone who dared break the law of justice shall be punished. With a colossal punch to where he saw fit. I’m also not too sure WHY he declared that, but I’m sure there’s some punchilicious reason.

After consuming his manly bacon with the speed and ferocity of a thousand pissed off and hungry gods, who were all really good at punching, he ran outside and waited for the next criminal activity to draw his fists’ attention. He waited and waited. What seems like days passed. He could literally see the mould on the pavement grow as he sat, patiently waiting for crime to meet his fists. It was just past 4 now, and no crime had come. Was this it? Had Punch God finally rid all of *insert shitty town name here* of poor, low-life scum? For a while he considered this, and contemplated a future as a book keeper, but then, suddenly, he saw a figure walking down the pavement. It was a small boy, around 8 years of age, curly black hair; glasses larger than his head and a frame so round you could catch up on your circle theorem while looking at it. At first Punch God disregarded the child as some freak nerd, but then a chilling sensation crept down his spine. One he has only felt before when he is in TRUE mortal-peril, something Punch God doesn’t experience much thanks to the whole God thing. He closer examined the seemingly harmless child crossing the pavement. He stared and stared, giving the child a stare that would immediately put him on the sex offenders list, until suddenly, just as the child was directly opposite Punch God on the pavement, the child’s head snapped to turn towards him, and burning gaze filled with hatred boring into Punch God’s very soul. ‘OH NO’ cried Punch God, ‘IT’S MY ARCH NEMESIS, KICK MASTER!’. Punch God ran for his life, but the Kick Master was far too quick. He kicked Punch God in the back of the head, farted on his balls, then walked off laughing, like the evil, malevolent child he is, causing Punch God to cry for days.

‘Someday’ exclaimed Punch God, ‘I will get my revenge…’ And then he continued sobbing and eating more ice cream.

Living In Shit: The Perfect Holiday

Seriously, fuck camping. It’s not the general filth that gets me, it’s not the impossibly un-comfortable nights or the whole ‘tents are shit’ thing, it’s more the campsite. Last weekend I went camping with my extended family from my dad’s side, 14 people in total, and seeing as how they’re all from Brazil/New Zealand, it was a fairly confusing weekend, made even more confusing when a naked toddler strolls past my cousin. It then gets even more confusing when said cousin then picks up the toddler and nonchalantly places the toddler in his conveniently child-shaped bag. Although that last part didn’t happen, there WAS a naked toddler and it didn’t seem to realize it was standing directly in the middle of us. You know that awkward moment when there’s a precise place you can’t look and so try to look anywhere but that place? Well we all had that. All 14 of us. And it was right in our faces. Anyway after a while the parent EVENTUALLY turns up to take away the little naked demon child-thing, I look back to find my cousin staring at the toddler’s smooth, round, succulent bottom, his mouth frothing violently, his hands shaking vigorously in his trousers, his face slowly becoming a vivid crimson red. Okay I made that up too, my cousin is NOT a pedophile. Yet.

Still, how the fuck did that toddler get there? I mean we’re an isolated camp, a one man tent-army if you will, an impenetrable fortress of campitude even. We also happened to be surrounded by a lot more of those it seems. Because we’re not allowed to camp anywhere. We’re not allowed to just set up camp and burn whole forests to the ground, seeing as THE MAN likes the environment, we have to go to designated camp sites, teeming with…with…PEOPLE. It’s no longer a ‘Me against the wild’ affair; it’s a ‘Me against lots of other angry campers’ deal. Well, at least that means I get good facilities.

WROOOOOOOONG. I took a visit to the worst toilet in all of wherever-the-hell-I-was, and it wasn’t a place I was going to stay for long/at all. Tap water was brown. No toilet paper. Toilet covered in flies. Worst smell I have ever experienced. Not even Satan would go near that thing. So, like a dignified man, I pledged to hold it in all weekend. However, as a dignified man with over-active bowels, pledges must be broken, as must social taboos. Such as shitting in the woods. When it comes between that toilet, and a tree, I know where I’m going. Although in hindsight, I don’t think I did. Turns out, taking a massive steaming dump and leaving tissue paper covered in fecal matter scattered around on a goddamn NATURE TRAIL is somewhat disgraceful. Someone’s bound to of found it by now, causing bafflement and disgust at once in one huge twisted torrent of rage when they see the toilet 20 metres away. Well, ‘tis the circle of life my friend, the circle of life…

Okay I’m just a cunt, whatever.

Mobile Phones: Being Sociable, The Radioactive Way

It’s gotten to the extent that it takes 2 extremely angry potheads to shout at me in order for me to get inspiration these days, which somehow (don’t question it) leads me to the subject of phones. Or phones of the mobile kind, to be more precise. I’ve never been a massive phone fan myself, possibly due to the first phone I ever owned EXPLODING IN MY GODDAMN HAND, or maybe even due to my phone contact list consisting of my mum. And only my mum. But mainly my hatred for the mobile-communication devices has stemmed from the need to talk to OTHER people. Seriously. What is that shit.

Back in the good ol’ days (to my knowledge) people used to just ride to other people’s houses in huge fuck-off horses coated in huge fuck-off armour, wielding huge fuck-off swords and delivering huge fuck-off letters. And that was just what one did back in huge fuck-off land. But NOW, bloody NOW, we have to ‘keep in touch with people’ instead of sobbing into a corner covered in hay every day and night. And I fucking LOVE that corner. At any second of the day, some random person or one of my various totally-real-and-not-made-up friends could ring me, demanding my presence or, even worse, casual conversation, and let’s face it, no one likes that shit.

So why do I even have a phone if I hate them that much you probably don’t ask? Well, to answer that question which you couldn’t give 2 shits and half a monkey about, it’s because I’m impossibly lazy, to the point where it’s actually beyond insulting. As much as I’d love to travel 40 miles on a bear or something (sorry, horses are SO 14th century), carrying a sword and wearing armor, JUST to deliver a trivial letter to someone I don’t really care about, not only is half of that ridiculously illegal, but also I’d much rather just shove my poor disease-ridden thumbs around on a phone’s numeral slate to say exactly the same thing.

And what’s worse than having a phone? Having a phone so expensive it makes Bill Gates turn in his soon-to-be gold encrusted grave (I don’t know any famous dead rich people, alright?). IPhones. Blackberries. IBerries, whatever, I’ve never understood why someone would pay that much for socializing across vast distances. And why is it so expensive? Because companies take the concept of the phone and think ‘hmmm, what useless item can we add to this that will make it cost a kagillion pounds’. Cameras, weight unit converter, bloody MOTION DETECTION, you name it; they’ve put that shit in a phone. Now I don’t know about you, but that stuff is beyond useless, and any tool on earth that buys it should be gruesomely and painfully put down.

...Not that...you know...I would buy a phone with any of that stuff on it...*cough*

'Dental Surgery' Makes It Sound A Little Extreme.

I went to the dentist the other day. Well, actually, it was about two weeks ago now, but as much as I'm tempted to feel guilty for postponing this post about my trip to the face-drillers for a fortnight out of laziness, it really doesn't matter because you don't care. Quite rightly.

So, I went to the dentist two weeks ago. Damn it, I almost want to start again now, it's already sounding like a boring, run-of-the-mill blog post from some pretentious teenager who genuinely thinks their two-faced friends could give a shit about the condition of their teeth. Which, if you think about it, would be kind of weird if it was true. I don't go around thinking about how people molars are hanging in there, swamped in sticky saliva in the stinking grotto of their mouth. That's just freaky.

So two weeks ago I went to the dentist. There's a big fearful stigma about going to the dentist, mainly carried on from 50 year-olds reminding their kids on how mercilessly brutal it was in their day, where they'd tie you to a chair, prise open your mouth with a car jack, and indiscriminately attack your teeth with a pneumatic drill. Because they didn't have anaesthesia in those days. However, there's something soothing I find in the dentist. It wasn't the case in the waiting room in which some shady-looking character opposite me kept looking seedily at my phone and daring me to make eye contact, but once in the Matrix-chair preparing to be 'jacked in' and given sunglasses (apparently to stop liquid getting in my eyes, but I know it was to complete the 'Neo' look) I was completely at peace. I was able to watch the news while a rubber-gloved South African investigated the inside of my mouth with his feelers, and so occasionally make the mistake of chuckling at the thought of David Cameron, Nick Clegg, Gordon Brown and a pack of hungry lions fighting to the death. When they eventually did find a problem with my Coke-soaked grinders, it was a sticky lump of matter stuck to to bottom of a molar which I assume to be a week-old morsel of Refresher that hadn't made it out. This was casually drilled out, which I honestly didn't mind, despite the tools used literally being a mini buzzsaw and a vacuum cleaner.

Having finished the inspection, my last obstacle was getting out in a non-awkward fashion. I have a bit of a history in clinical environments for doing something clumsy or cringey, and unfortunately this was no exception. The dentist held out his hand. In this day and age, that can mean a lot of things, right? I gestured towards him the tissues he had given me, believing he was going to throw them in a bin. He didn't grab. I then latched on to the idea that it was of course the classic British action of the handshake, so I grabbed his hand and shook it heartily. 'No,' he said, 'It's the glasses I'm after'. I had completely forgot I had them on. Thanks for the cheeky humiliation there, 'Freddie the dentist', here's hoping you'll have forgotten about that awkward little exchange by the time I next see you in six months.

Shit Suddenly Smells Sweeter.

I went to Russia this week. Yeah, it's not exactly something you do casually, it was a school trip ok? And yes I go to school. Jeez I'm such a pussy.

The expectations of Russia tend to be bearskin hats, cold weather and patriotism. Most will still persistently believe this despite it being a painfully Americanised view in which any other country with nuclear weapons clearly has to be an apocalyptic, dead place which is so totalitarian and cruel it wakes up its citizens every morning with a beating and has all-day radio broadcasts looping the phrase 'YOU ARE SHIT' . And because I'm such a brainwashed sod I went there already half-expecting these things. What actually met me there was certainly something close to a polar opposite, but surprisingly it wasn't a good thing at all. 

Russia isn't an oppressive country - well, apart from to photographers, as they seem to think over there that should you take a picture inside a church you are KILLING GOD - but it is, without a doubt, shit. We on this blog spend our time moaning and groaning about England as if it's the worst thing since Piers Morgan's head boiled and served by a Liberian prostitute, but as it happens it really is sugar and rainbows compared to Mother Russia. You think British people moan? Try bumping into a Russian woman. She'll scream at you. Try telling her you don't speak Russian, and she'll scream louder. You think English cities are tacky and grimy? Moscow might as well be the world's biggest landfill site. And by no means be mistaken that Russians love their country. I've never seen so many bored and hateful people in my life than I did in what remains of the USSR, and even our tour guide started our visit with the sentence, 'I hope you're prepared for Moscow, because it is... terrible...'. After my three day stay in the capital and being surrounded by the jungle of abandoned, smashed up old buildings and virtually drowned in cigarette smoke and industrial smog, I'm going to have to agree with her. 

Flying back over Brittania, which I usually find to be an experience more depressing than reading the Bible, I couldn't help notice the fact that it pretty much radiates happiness in comparison. Yeah, the staff at the airport glared back at me and everyone in London still looked like they were about to blow their brains out, but at least they didn't seem to be about to take their whole country with them. We might be the bastards that created Charlie Bit My Finger and the Jeremy Kyle Show, but God bless us. I guess.

Loss-Of-Dignity Pie, My Favourite

America, to be frank, is shit. Full of impossibly misguided patriotism, inter-bred rednecks, and, worst of all, fat people. I’ve been there a total of 3 times (all of which have been to Florida, so this may be a wee bit biased) and all 3 times I’ve been surrounded by fat people. I’m not talking slightly round on the edges fat, I’m talking ‘you feel over-encumbered by just looking at them’ fat. Obviously at Florida my ‘adventures’ took me to Disney World, and thusly, Sea World. On one particular roller-coaster known as Kraken, a lady got on (well, when I say ‘lady’ I mean more like monster from the deep, by which I mean she was FUCKING FAT) She tried to get into a normal seat, and as you guessed, she didn’t fit. So she (from now on to be referred to as ‘it’) was designated the mega fat seat. This is basically 2 seats glued together, and oozed degradation. It didn’t fit. It took 2 men trying to force it into the seat, using every tactic but the ol’ crowbar and butter, to ‘get it in’. After the eternal struggle, they realized they couldn’t get the safety lock down, and had to ask it to leave. The roller-coaster probably wouldn’t have gotten very far with it onboard anyway.

Now let’s get one thing straight. ‘big-boned’ does NOT exist. I swear if I have to hear ONE more excuse from a fat person I’m going to get stabby. What makes it worse is how you never hear them say ‘oh I’m fat because…’ it’s always ‘I’m not fat, I’m…’ yes, that’s right, they all STRAIGHT UP DENY IT. You could go to the people in Florida, who’re confined to a wheelchair because they’re too goddamn fat to walk (I’m not even kidding you), and ask them why they’re fat, and I guarantee you, they’d either just claim they’re ‘disabled’, or gorge on tub after tub of ice cream while tears of boiling fat roll down their disturbingly greasy faces. I don’t know if there’s fat-man syndrome, but if there is it probably consists of ridiculously huge mood-swings. They’re like huge bladders of rampant emotions, ready to piss on anyone who does next to nothing, while the people who constantly mock them remain perfectly dry.

Not only that, but to add insult to one hell of an injury, they demand to have equal rights to a man that doesn’t weigh half a tonne and consume half the world’s food recourse single-handedly. They think we should replace all stairs with lifts or ramps, or that we should all respect their feelings, or that we should present to them the food from the hands of a starving African family, so they can absorb it into their huge fat-swelling body, FOR NO APPARENT REASON. I, for one, will not stand to the nonsensical ideal that someone primarily composed of food can equate to common man, and so I say nay, nay to equal rights to ‘fat’ men, and nay to their sheer existence. Something I intend to end with my elaborately shit yet somehow brilliant (although not really) plan.

Now obviously with fat people eating a lot, they need to shit a lot, right? Well we shall make this their downfall. What we do first, is we ban private toilets (much to my dismay) and make public toilets the only ones available. Now, make REALLY thin cubicles to the point where fat people can’t actually get in them, and then make a really wide cubicle to the point where only a fat man would even dare go near it. This is where it gets deviously clever you see, we spray all the toilet seats of the wide cubicles with fucking BUM GERMS. As we all know, bum germs are a deadly disease that spreads through contact of the bum, and then proceeds to inject fat cells with tiny explosives. After a week, these explode, making anyone with bum germs explode with them. When fat people start exploding on the street, yes, a fair few people may die from bits of KFC shrapnel (dangerous stuff), but they will be remembered forever, for their magnificent sacrifice. Unlike fat people.

'MicroHard'- Not So Innocent Now Are You?

I’ll admit it; I’m somewhat of a self-proclaimed Xbox fan-boy, despite my absolute hatred for the phrase. I spent most of my indescribably drab childhood on the PS2, firmly believing the Xbox was balderdash, had NO good games, and people bought it entirely because it was called the Xbox (if you’ve grown accustomed to the word, look at it more carefully), and I still believe that to this day. However when EVERYONE bought a 360 when the PS3 hadn’t even been released, I figured it was time to let go of my Sony roots and head for something more…wholesome. Which I honestly have been thinking it was for a long time now. (Before I jump aboard the ‘But…’-wagon that you know I’m about to, let me just point something out. I do NOT hate PS3s. I feel the games on it aren’t leaned towards my tastes and that I don’t have enough spare money to buy the console unfortunately. ) BUT…

Microsoft has turned pure evil. Either that or I’ve paid them enough tax (yes, child tax) to keep them off my oh-so sweaty back. The fact that they’re money loving shit-stalkers has been sneaking up on me like a steroid-addicted ninja recently, but it really occurred to me the other day how malevolent they are, when I was fiddling with my 360 profile (it was one hell of an exciting afternoon) and I tried to change my motto to ‘Arsetrolleys & Twatnuggets’. Apparently, not only am I not allowed to have that long a motto, but the word ‘twat’ has become illegal in the virtual world. So, strike one, Microsoft has taken my free speech. Again. After then changing my motto to ‘Coques & Arsetrolleys’ and luckily saving the devastation of the minds of children worldwide, I went on the game ‘Mass Effect 2’, which anyone who’s paid attention to gaming at all will of heard of (my apologies to those that haven’t paid attention). Upon entering the main menu, it starts saying to me ‘There’s new content available! Get this really awesome suit of AMAZING FUCKING KICK ASS ARMOUR, OTHERWISE THE GAME ISN’T REALLY WORTH PLAYING’. So after looking at this for a while, I open the little menu that gives the option to download this suit of armour. Oh look. It costs money. Last time I recall I had ALREADY bought the game. So now the future of gaming is, you buy the disc of the game for 35 quid, and then buy all the content for the game online for a measly 50 quid. I can’t wait to grow out of games.

So strike two, Microsoft are stealing my money. While I feel I only really need 2 (if not 1) strikes, I also feel a bit incomplete without a third (I don’t have OCD, shut up), so I would either make it that they’re the people who made Halo 3, or that they’re jealous pricks.

So just picture it, it’s a Microsoft conference, and they’re all sitting around brainstorming ideas about how to take people’s money. One dude blurts out ‘hey we could not charge the public for small necessary things and gain more sales?’ At this point he is fired and mysteriously flattened by a piano (shit happens). Then another guy says ‘what’s that console that Nintendo made…that one that’s selling disturbingly well and provides novelty to families for 10 minutes before becoming a dust-collector?’, the bastard that took over Ol’ Bill then tells him it’s the hilariously named Wii, and the guy continues, ‘well, we could make one of those, but make it without a controller…and with facial and voice recognition, and with a movement sensor, and a dignity loss indicator, to tell you how much dignity you’ll lose while playing on it’, at this the bastard goes ‘GREAT IDEA WE’LL SPEND BILLIONS OF POUNDS MAKING A PIECE OF SHIT’. Not buying the Natal (the name of this infernal contraption) is going to be fun.

So there you have it, undeniable proof that Microsoft is indeed, pure evil. To be honest, I’m surprised this hasn’t all been deleted, what with me using Microsoft Word and all that. It’s just a shame that I’m not going to stop using my Xbox 360. I’m not going to stop using Windows XP. I’m not going to stop letting Microsoft steal every last penny I have. Because it’s either them, or Apple.