Like Taking a Dump of Jelly

I get the feeling that this is somehow a really extreme product review of something barely anyone buys, but something that REALLY pissed me off recently is Hartley's Squeezy Jam. I won't call it by the official 'Smooth' name, partly because calling it 'smooth' makes as much sense as calling a brick 'obnoxious', and also because it is general so god-awful that it does not deserve its real name.

The only reason I had to use the cursed confiture was because we were out of ordinary jam, which by sod's law I SERIOUSLY felt like having, and so I saw this bottle-shaped thing hiding at the back of the fridge glaring disgustingly back at me, and reluctantly I took it. Usually my instinct would be to leave this for a few months and let another member of my family to be poisoned by it but due to my insatiable desire for jam I thought I'd try it out.

Probably the biggest food-related mistake I've had since eating pickled onions out of a jar. Firstly, the jam thought it would be utterly hilarious to piss industrially-flavoured 'raspberry' juice all over my bread which was apparently the liquid solution left at the bottom of the bottle, which instantly made my bread soaking wet , and didn't even stay on top but seeped through onto the plate. Refusing to believe it was impossible to have a simple jam sandwich, I continued and realised that the actual jam, as in thick sticky stuff with what I hope was raspberry in it, was pretty determined to stay in its plastic hellhole. After 5 minutes of extreme shaking/throwing at wall/tantrums, it began to budge out of the gaping orifice of the bottle. It defiantly shat out of a lump of dark red stodgy mess, sound effects and all, as if the bottle was taking a dump of jelly. Month-old jelly made of intestines.

After which I'm sure you can guess, it tasted like a rotting cadaver. The bread now red and soggy had a pile of what appeared to be blood-soaked fat on top, spread unevenly around and I haven't tasted something quite so bad in years. So in the end, I didn't even get my jam sandwich. It was torture to have it under my nose, let alone in my mouth. Squeezy jam wasn't squeezy, I'm pretty sure it wasn't raspberry, and looking back on it I doubt it was even jam.

Vloggers, /b/ And Some Meaningless Words In-between

Now there’s only one thing I hate more than blogs, and that’s one million things including ‘vlogs’. Vlogs (otherwise known as video blogs) are simply that, someone recording themselves on a camera talking about their feelings on something or even worse *shudders* about HOW THEIR DAY WAS. I don’t care how even my closest of friend’s day was, I don’t even care how MY day was, so why in the name of iGod©, would I care about how some spotty, American, ignorant, Call Of Duty playing 14 year old’s day was. The only way I would care is if they went to a funeral full of mourning bears that were kept alive by drugs and holding clipboards and then the said vlogger went around on the side of the motorway wearing a sandwich board that proclaimed ‘Help me I need money for bear drugs…and clipboards’. THEN I might care. YouTube has become a cesspit for these impossibly frequent and nauseating videos, you might as well call it You(‘re a twat)tube…(it seemed funny at the time). Yet somehow, people enjoy them, such as our very own Failboatskipper , who has spammed me with this shit countless times. All I have to do is simply see the preview picture for the video and it causes me to stare out my window, either wondering where the world went wrong or contemplating leaping out of it (which sadly I can’t do now anyway because some smart-arsed builders who were fixing the gutter fixed it a bit too well so now I cant open my window enough to get an arm out. Suppose I could just open it and hope fresh air comes in, I don’t think my immune system would be able to take that).

But wait, no, if you haven’t thrown up in disgust by how awful these vloggers are/ my ignorance/my pathetic attempt at changing YouTube’s name, then you’ll possibly be slightly delighted to know that it does indeed get worse. All of a sudden…BOOM. /b/ flies through the window (not mine obviously) and screams at all the vloggers how they’re anonymous, legion, and surprisingly alike to vloggers in their age group and maturity levels. After giving vloggers a fresh kick in the face with a foot riddled with rotten memes and dead skin (that can be lack of originality if you REALLY want to complete the semi-metaphor), the vloggers felt they have the god-given right to pass it onto the world, one abysmal video after the next. I honestly don’t care if you have the capability to say ‘nigger’ every other 3 words, I don’t give the tiniest shit if you like mudkips, and frankly, if you believe you belong to ‘the super secret club that we only know about and are part of known as /b/’, then you’re simply 14. Nothing more to it. (14 counts as a child. AND YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT CHILDREN).

Well as I sit here sighing, trying to convince myself I’m the only sane man on the planet (give me a few days, I’ll believe it eventually), I’m left with very few comforts, such as how I’ll be playing the new Batman game tomorrow (yes that counts as a comfort…), or how it’s almost half-term, during which I will be doing shit all, or maybe even how although the internet is plagued with vloggers, at least it isn’t being filled with Halo 3 and Call Of Duty montages, right?


…Oh shit.

Sorry My Mistake, Children DON’T Make Funny Jokes, On A Related Note : Terrorists

The thought’s always occurred to me how terrorists aren’t actually very good at well…causing terror, but it really made me think the other day, as my college was evacuated due to a power cut and we were all ‘reluctantly’ forced out of our lessons onto a large patch of grass outside. My college isn’t exactly a big place, so the power cut affected everyone, meaning we were ALL on the patch of grass together. Now me, being the paranoid, and slightly somewhat sadistic person I am (I just don’t like people okay?), I figured that really, a terrorist could easily have planted a bomb a few feet underground, cut the power the next day, hid in a bush ‘till all the children came out onto the grass, and BOOM everyone’s dead, Mohammed is pleased with him for being a complete dick, and the media get lots of lovely coverage of splattered children and mourning relatives. Now okay, terrorism’s been going on for hundreds of years, from the KKK to the IRA, to the Al Quaeda, and heck, it happens ALL the time, just go on Wikipedia and look up terrorist attacks in 2009, there’s pages and pages of stuff. But seriously, why can’t terrorists make more INTERESTING attacks in England? These days terrorists sit around brainstorming going “Alright, alright, what if we say…put a bomb…in our shoe…then got on a plane? And blew ourselves up?” And after their previous failure being pointed out, “Oh…well we could put the bomb…in our luggage?” Seriously I could swear the Al Quaeda have a fetish for planes. Sure when they first started blowing up planes, it was a pretty good idea, and they sure got us good, but they’re like a child who made a funny joke and keeps making it because they think everyone’s going to keep laughing at it if they keep repeating it…FOREVER. Seriously, bomb a shopping centre. Bomb a school, or maybe don’t even use bombs, just get a bag full of faeces and throw it at a douche called David Blaine sitting in a glass box. That’ll show him for defying the laws of nature…bastard.

Sorry did I mention children? Yeah this is now no longer about terrorists. Though in a way, I guess it is, after all, are children not noise terrorists, if anything? The grumpy old man inside of me simply wants to maim and mutilate every 3 foot something smiling energetic cunt that comes my way. Happy dwarves simply don’t stand a chance. As a child I was never really…well…a child. Strangely mature yet immature at the same time. And maybe that’s why I hate children. Because really, I’m Miss Trunchbull, never was a child somehow, and can throw little girls over fences by their hair if they piss me off a bit...shame it’s not legal to put children in iron maidens any more.

It’s too much of a given thing for me to complain about children CRYING (laughing is equally as painful obviously), so I’ll have to say something quite contradictory. I went to Italy this summer, and as I was queuing for the toilets there was this small Italian boy in front of me. As expected, he started to cry; I rolled my eyes while the word ‘shit’ echoed through my mind. But somehow, it wasn’t infuriating. It didn’t make me want to rip my ears off and shove them down his throat. When the child cried it was like a more entertaining version of opera. It was basically like Mario had his testicles surgically lowered and farted in Bowser’s face while Luigi fed him muffins (Italian ones), ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Actually hang on maybe the kid was having a seizure...Oh Italian people do crack me up with their abysmal heart conditions that they probably don’t have.

Well, Eeeeverybody Becomes A Paranoid Schizophrenic…Sometimes….

Let’s face it. Everyone’s crazy. Everyone goes around pretending that they’re the happiest thing alive, to not convey their inner securities. So yes, your best friend is most likely a serial killer bent on killing pandas covered in humus, your mother secretly wants to be able to play the didgeridoo through her ears, and you’re just simply a cold-hearted bastard. But one thing that simply intrigues me, is paranoia. I don’t see why paranoia is a valid mental ‘disease’, heck, who ISN’T paranoid? I can’t walk down a street without thinking everyone that passes me by is a mugger, and then when they don’t mug me, they laugh at me behind my back. Prams don’t have babies in them, they’re loaded with bombs (Curse you Fallout 3). Cars are full of mobsters intent on blowing me sky high as they drive past. Not even the people in toll booths are safe from my suspicious ways (I was sure they were going to kill me BEFORE I saw that bit from The Godfather, I’m original alright?). I don’t know, maybe it’s the media telling us breathing gives us cancer, maybe it’s the constant threat of terrorism, maybe it’s the fact that all youths are twats, or maybe it’s just simply how I refuse to stop making lists, but everyone seems to be incredibly scared of everything, after all, everything now has the potential to kill us, from the humble toaster, to the not-so-humble axe-wielding maniac, however funny they are.

And of course what goes well with paranoia? Nothing more than good ol’ crippling depression. When the day comes that you become depressed, if that day hasn’t come already, I can tell you that you my friend, have hit a big-ass goldmine. Because you remember all that awful paranoia you had before, that caused you to be threatened by death every day? Well, it’s going to be a perfect partner for your depression, as you won’t wake up any more thinking ‘FUCK, IF I GET OUT OF BED, I’M GOING TO EXPLODE’, instead you think ‘Oh goody, if I get out of bed, I’m going to explode!’. You practically skip to work/school/whatever the fuck you do for a living, in the vain hope you achieve arthritis, or that a toaster might come hurtling downward from the heavens onto your head, or that Westboro Church mistakes you for a fag and burns you alive on the holy alter of ignorance.

Still, mental diseases really aren’t something to be ashamed of, merely something to be hidden and suppressed until the day you snap, end up killing a third of your colleagues, get put in a mental home, and laugh hysterically in a white padded cell accompanied by a straight jacket pinning you together, all the while psychiatrists tut their faces off at you behind a one way mirror. My future looks bleak in comparison.

Still, I will leave you with a quote that I see as relevant, from the one and only Marcus Fenix “THAT’S FIVE MOTHERFUCKERS”

Derren Brown The Not-So-White

These days I simply can’t go a whole day without some raving lunatic ranting to me about how Mr. Brown is the most incredible man alive. Even as I stay indoors and evade my family, the curse of the internet furthers my pain by screaming at me that Mr. Brown is a genius who deserves everyone’s love, a blowjob from Gordon Brown and a shit-load of money. So why DOESN’T he have that then? After all, for what feels to me like a few weeks ago, (I don’t know, maybe it was last year, I don’t have very good time perception), he ‘successfully predicted the lottery’. Of course he did. There’s no other logical explanation. He’s the glorious reincarnation of Hades, Lucifer and Shiva, all rolled into one. He’s the new not-so-Jesus deity that’s going to kind of save us all. With magic. If he can predict what underwear you’re wearing, then the lottery would be a breeze. So how come he’s never genuinely won the lottery. Why doesn’t he go out, buy a lottery ticket, and win like the smart-arsed, gay voiced bastard he is. ‘OH BECAUSE HE’S SUCH A NICE MAN AND DOESN’T WANT OTHER PEOPLE TO SUFFER DUE TO HIS GENIUS’, you may hear other people saying. So he wouldn’t even go out and win…not even one teeny weeny time?

Let’s not forget the week after that where he froze THE WHOLE GODDAMN COUNTRY WITH DISORIENTATING LINES. Let me elaborate my theory to you on that. It’s no doubt, what with the countless people saying ‘OMG I GOT STUCK TO MY CHAIR OMG IT FELT SO WEIRD LOLOLOLOL’, that some people did indeed, become ‘stuck’. Far as I’m concerned, there were no cynical bastards out there who sat there thinking ‘This isn’t going to work, this isn’t going to work, THIS ISN’T GOING TO WORK’ that suddenly got stuck and realized what fools there were for being so arrogant for not believing in sticky magic. While the more gullible of us gawped at the box while telling ourselves that yes, Mr. Brown can do anything, and so we WILL be frozen to our seats, whether we like it or not.

Well personally I damn hope I’m correct, otherwise give it a year or two, and Mr. Brown will be showing a new trick in which he possesses half the nation and commands them to brutally murder the other half, all the while England smiles and congratulates Mr. Brown for being such a smart man while they smash each other’s teeth out, preferably with sledgehammers. I guess it’s up to me and my like, the cynical bastards, to form a small resistance against the Evil overlord Mr. Brown, which should roughly last 3 minutes before he yells at us the colour of our underwear while we go cry in a small corner. Still, he’d probably be busy answering the shitloads of letters and e-mails he’s received asking him to predict the lottery for them.