'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.

Gordon Brown Ain't Got Nothin' On The Sun.

In a way, I feel sorry for the man. He just sulks around, giving the world a light drenching of piss, while everyone INSISTS that they stick it to him. I have no clue what ‘sticking it’ means, but if I was gently pissing on other’s property, and a horde of angry people ran up to me yelling in my face that they were going to ‘stick it to me’, I would be fucking terrified. Everyone’s far too quick to ‘stick it’ to people that are making them pay taxes for things that they themselves frequently use. But what if I was to tell you, that big men in suits with bladder problems AREN’T the people you should be sticking it to? That they aren’t actually the people that run this country. At all. What if I was to tell you that the government didn’t run the country, but actually it was something much darker, much more mysterious, something much more conspiracy based. Something that frequently tells you to stick it to the man. Yes, that’s right; the man is actually…THE MEDIA.

If you hadn’t figured it out on your own, then it’s probably because everyone tells you that the government runs the country, and you listen to them like the moron you are. Sure, the government makes the rules, but what do they make the rules based on? The people’s opinion obviously (in this country anyway), but what do the people’s opinion pretty much consist of? The media’s opinion. Think about it, the media could convince anyone of anything, they say an earthquake in Haiti happens, EVERYONE believes it (I’m not saying it didn’t happen, but if it didn’t, how would we know?), they say some stupid bitch you don’t know but should care about for unexplained reasons got really drunk and did something stupid, then not only do you believe them, but you CARE. The media points everyone in the ‘right’ direction and they all blindly follow. It’s close to mind control, thanks to everyone being unbelievably gullible.

See, my dream is where they cut all that artsy, colourful screwing with your mind shit, and just simply present you with some cold hard facts on a piece of paper, all written in New Times Roman, so you can properly compare products, make a judgment, and not have some bellend staring at you through a crystal ball laughing his tiny arse off as you do exactly as he says. In a completely opposite, worst case scenario, the media could be entirely be bought by one man. The only reason the mind control hasn’t made us into an army of magazine-reading twats is that almost everything in the media is done by different people, and usually they have contrasting views, and since that confuses the fuck out of us, we only stick to one item of each type (Only reading The Sun for instance. If you’re an idiot). But if these contrasting views were dissolved, and left us with ONE newspaper, ONE celebrity, ONE television program, then let’s face it, we’d be screwed.

I just hope an extremist muslim buys it, then at least we’d have half the population blown to shreds. (Another one of my dreams).

Ode To Mile High Club On Veteran Difficulty

It was one fateful night last summer,
as I was browsing my achievements,
I thought, yae, why am I without this last G?
My fatter accomplice could do it, CoD4 addict is he,
And he is surely stupider than me.

I started at the hour of 10 that night, 
Airplane reference I heard,
I jumped from the hole made in roof,
And began with all my might.

Oh sweet man who you see at the start,
Who wonders from the toilet,
What life did thee aspire to,
No matter, there's now a knife in your heart.

Yae Captain Price,
shit character as you are,
You say 'tango down in section one alpha',
I know, fuck dammit, for I his killer are.

But then it seemed to me, a quick 2 hours later,
Why do I reach my end so commonly?
Why this so difficult be?
I shall be so angry I... shall... cause a crater?

Another 3 hours, yae, they passed,
My eyes were getting droopy, 
How could something be this hard,
I almost can't be arsed.

But nay, I must continue!
For I am better than they,
Who leave what's hard and go to MP,
I will do it, fuck you!

Another 2 hours, came and went,
Reinvigorated by caffeine,
I reached the hostage one time,
But got his brains all on the cement.

And there the sun be now,
Curling over the horizon,
Light streamed into my room like fire,
The sweat was on my brow.

The clock hit 7.am at last,
And things were getting desperate,
I switched the pistol for the P90,
And began my final charge.

I now began to grin a smirk,Of course! This works! I said, 
Get to the trigger point, AI move forward,
To do all your dirty work.

Half 7 it was now, 
And I was feeling the success,
True veterans go for headshots? 
Ok then, aim and POW!

Finally! It was done,
My rejoice could be heard for miles.
I rang my associates, forgetting the time,
And surely I pleased none.

But now it has been finished,
And the achievement on my list,
Modern Warfare 2 campaign it is now?
My confidence is not diminished.

Requiem For Inter-Galactic Lovin'

Oh, as I walked those badly decorated and slightly bloody hallways,
I heard a banging noise,
Feeling a solemn patch of lump in the bottom of my pantaloons,
I did venture toward it,
To see a monstrous shape much like the bastards I dismembered previously
I raised my generic space tool,
Which doubled as an alien killing machine at the thing,
And I pulled the trigger, but no, Isaac would not shoot the thing in the shadow, and I doth not know why.

I tried many a time, day and night, month and year, despite Deadspace only arriving today,
But yet, no success became onto me.
Isaac, the bell end, would not shoot him, beseeching to me not a reason.
Why, oh why Isaac, must you torture me so?
I only wished to survive the nightmarish campaign with clean pantaloons and a fresh look on life,
But yet you insist to not shoot the thing making a banging noise against the wall.
What have I done to thee, to make thee so wrathful and hatred of plenty upon me?
But then, a thought came to me, the thing making a banging noise, it has not tried to place it’s claws around my face, or suck on my neck, so maybe it is hibernating?

Many a thought crossed my mind,
All of which equally logical and likely.
Do huge aliens with claws masturbate,
and if so, why would it do so in my prescence?
If huge aliens with claws masturbate,
Why would they do it up against the wall?

Do walls turn them on?

If huge aliens with claws masturbate,
Where is their penis located?
So many questions, so little answers,
But most of them consisting of masturbation.

The banging started getting faster and faster,
And the lump in my pantaloons now turned to my front side,
Maybe inter-species love is how it was meant to be?
Maybe me and huge aliens with claws’ love was meant to be free?
Oh how I longed to be with that alien, banging against that wall.
As I moved closer, inch by inch, to that gently rocking alien with claws,
I could feel the love springing forth, bringing us together for eternity,
Forever to be, huge alien with claws and me.

But then as I finally drew near to the alien, I was shocked, horrified, mortified, adjectivied,
To realize that not only did I not know what the sprint button was,
But to realize that it was not an alien. BUT A MAN.
The urge to take a cold shower took over as I stared the man in the face as he rocked back and forth,
Smacking his head against the wall.
Oh, forgive me would be alien, I was young, I was angry, and so,
I willed his head to explode, so that the gods may take his non-masturbating-alien soul away,
And then, with a bang, it did.

Also it turned out he was totally mutilated.