It was early today, around 1pm which is early for me, when I decided that I should go and give the front of the pub a wash down to get rid of the accumulated traffic grime. A bucket of soapy water and a brush were grabbed from the cleaning cupboard and off I went.
Looking up I noticed that the windows could do with a wash so I went inside and got the keys for the gratings that cover the windows. As I'm not tall enough to reach the padlock I grabbed a chair from the bar, took it outside and plonked it down in front of the bucket of water, and proceeded to stand on it to enable me to reach the lock.
Having unlocked the grating I swung it open and stepped backwards off of the chair. This is when my left foot landed squarely in the bucket of soapy water. And that was the reason I spent the day wearing a pair of Jenny's other half's jean shorts that were 3/4 length on me due to his being at least a foot taller than I am.
Showing posts with label Idiocy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Idiocy. Show all posts
10/20/2008
7/18/2008
Judging by the first question I'm most often asked...
When standing behind the bar at work, I'd say that the people who frequent the place are more often than not brainless idiots...
It's been about three weeks since I started my new job and without fail whenever a new face (new to me anyway) comes in the most popular question is "What football team do you support?"[1] To me this suggests one of two things. Either A.) They are brain-dead. Or B.) They are mindless idiots who measure a man, not by his deeds or his actions, but by which colour the overpaid Prima Donnas kick an inflated pigs bladder around a field he supports wears.[2]
Both of these things are not good. Not good in the extreme if you ask me. I mean what kind of retard judges a man based solely on the football team he supports? Yes, you got it, the kind that likes to drink heavily, watch football and beats the shit out his girlfriend on a regular basis. In other words, my customers.
Seriously, what is the mindset of someone who will come to a judgement on someone based on whether or not he follows the fortunes of the same football team as he supports? To me that's as moronic as it can possibly get. It's akin to judging someone by the amount of sugar they take in their tea, if they prefer cheese or pickle on their sandwiches or whether they like cheese flavoured Doritos or cool original flavoured.
So what, I hear you ask, is my answer?
Well, I don't support a football team because football is as interesting to me as shoving a cocktail umbrella into the urethra of my penis and seeing if I can open it. In other words, it's not high on my list of things to do. In fact I would say that shoving a cocktail umbrella into my urethra is way above joining the herds of football fans on the planet because I don't want to lower my intelligence to that of a retarded monkey who suffers from down syndrome.
[1] Football as in Soccer.
[2] I've come to the conclusion it's a combination of both.
It's been about three weeks since I started my new job and without fail whenever a new face (new to me anyway) comes in the most popular question is "What football team do you support?"[1] To me this suggests one of two things. Either A.) They are brain-dead. Or B.) They are mindless idiots who measure a man, not by his deeds or his actions, but by which colour the overpaid Prima Donnas kick an inflated pigs bladder around a field he supports wears.[2]
Both of these things are not good. Not good in the extreme if you ask me. I mean what kind of retard judges a man based solely on the football team he supports? Yes, you got it, the kind that likes to drink heavily, watch football and beats the shit out his girlfriend on a regular basis. In other words, my customers.
Seriously, what is the mindset of someone who will come to a judgement on someone based on whether or not he follows the fortunes of the same football team as he supports? To me that's as moronic as it can possibly get. It's akin to judging someone by the amount of sugar they take in their tea, if they prefer cheese or pickle on their sandwiches or whether they like cheese flavoured Doritos or cool original flavoured.
So what, I hear you ask, is my answer?
Well, I don't support a football team because football is as interesting to me as shoving a cocktail umbrella into the urethra of my penis and seeing if I can open it. In other words, it's not high on my list of things to do. In fact I would say that shoving a cocktail umbrella into my urethra is way above joining the herds of football fans on the planet because I don't want to lower my intelligence to that of a retarded monkey who suffers from down syndrome.
[1] Football as in Soccer.
[2] I've come to the conclusion it's a combination of both.
7/17/2008
Tonight I learned...
That no matter how hard you wish and plead to the fairies, or kiss a lucky cloverleaf, or click your heels together and recite "There's no place like home... There's no place like home... There's no place like home..." or pray to the very Gods themselves... You cannot transport yourself through the sub ether (Or whatever the correct terminology is) and materialise on a beach in Mozambique.
This was not an easy thing to accept at the time, as I was standing behind a bar trying not to scream in someones face "YOU'RE AS INTERESTING AS A SECOND HAND TEABAG! GET OUT MY SIGHT BEFORE I STAB YOU IN THE HEAD WITH A PEN!", so I focused my concentration and tried for somewhere closer to home... Specifically, Wales.
Don't ask why my mind chose Wales, because I don't know. Of all the places I could have chosen that are closer to my house than Mozambique, which is six thousand and forty three miles away, at the time Wales seemed as good a place as any. Despite the fact that to my knowledge most of Wales is as interesting as watching flies fuck.
After at least a minute of focused concentration I gave in and tried for somewhere even closer to home. More precisely, home itself. The place that, technically, should be the easiest of all. After another couple of minutes of intense and focused concentration I opened my eyes to find that I was still standing in a dive of a bar, in a crappy suburb of an even shittier city.
To my utter surprise the person, whose face I was attempting not to scream at, was still standing in front of me talking away about the most mundane thing ever to have breath wasted on.
"Hello..." I said. "Anyone home?"
"Eh?" Came the monosyllabic response.
"I was just wondering if you were planning on noticing that I'm as interested in this conversation as I am in sampling chocolate covered dog shit." I said, praying that the person to whom I was speaking would chalk it up to humour and not punch me in the face.
The gimp laughed and continued uninterrupted, due to me being busy attempting to make their heart grind to a scrunching, and hopefully very very, painful halt. Once more I was confounded by the powers that be and the person did not seize their chest and die in abject agony.
"Look, sorry, don't take this the wrong way will you but this whole conversation is the mental equivalent of sweetcorn. It's only purpose is to waste my energy." I stated. Making damn sure that the look in my eyes, and on my face, conveyed my heartfelt sincerity on the matter. Jackie Braindead, however, was having none of it. And continued.
For the next five minutes or so I focused all my energy onto making my head go thermonuclear and explode, hopefully taking out as many of these idiotic people as possible. Call it a Smart Bomb... Yet again I was unsuccessful. Though to be fair I did have quite a good headache which may either be ascribed to the concentration level or the annoying sound of their voice, and promised myself that I would try harder next time.
Then came three of the most beautiful words I have ever heard in my entire life...
"Well, that's me."
I steadied myself on the bar, as I had been slightly confused by the the words.
"What?" I asked.
"I'm off." The troglodyte said, draining the dregs of his glass and picking up his mobile phone.
A "Hallelujah" resounded in my head and a small brass band began to play an upbeat tempo'd tune that wouldn't go amiss in a hip and fashionable club in Bourbon Street. Did I hear right? Had the gods observed my plight and saved me from having to listen to the ignoramus in front of me?
I watched in stunned silence as the neanderthal pressed buttons on his mobile and waved goodbye as it headed towards the door.
"Aye man, so anyway, mind I was saying she said that he said that the wifey from the chipshops daugthers cousins pal told her that there's some bird doing tricks for taxi drivers to avoid paying the fare... Well you'll never guess who it is..." It said into its mobile as it walked towards the door, leaving me to ponder if there was some kind of mental deficiency they suffered from that made them talk utter crap constantly.
I turned around and looked at the old guy at the end of the bar who, like so many others in pubs across the world, sits quietly, observing, collating and calculating the ups and downs of pub life and only ever says one of three words at a time*, and raised my eyebrows in a way that I knew would convey the sentence "That guy's a test of your patience is he not?"
The old guy lifted his glass and took a long, drink.
"He's a fucking arsehole and the sooner he's killed by a runaway truck the better." He said.
"Pint?" I asked.
"Nip." He replied.
* The three are the following,..
1. "Pint."
2. "Nip."
And 3. "Taxi."
This was not an easy thing to accept at the time, as I was standing behind a bar trying not to scream in someones face "YOU'RE AS INTERESTING AS A SECOND HAND TEABAG! GET OUT MY SIGHT BEFORE I STAB YOU IN THE HEAD WITH A PEN!", so I focused my concentration and tried for somewhere closer to home... Specifically, Wales.
Don't ask why my mind chose Wales, because I don't know. Of all the places I could have chosen that are closer to my house than Mozambique, which is six thousand and forty three miles away, at the time Wales seemed as good a place as any. Despite the fact that to my knowledge most of Wales is as interesting as watching flies fuck.
After at least a minute of focused concentration I gave in and tried for somewhere even closer to home. More precisely, home itself. The place that, technically, should be the easiest of all. After another couple of minutes of intense and focused concentration I opened my eyes to find that I was still standing in a dive of a bar, in a crappy suburb of an even shittier city.
To my utter surprise the person, whose face I was attempting not to scream at, was still standing in front of me talking away about the most mundane thing ever to have breath wasted on.
"Hello..." I said. "Anyone home?"
"Eh?" Came the monosyllabic response.
"I was just wondering if you were planning on noticing that I'm as interested in this conversation as I am in sampling chocolate covered dog shit." I said, praying that the person to whom I was speaking would chalk it up to humour and not punch me in the face.
The gimp laughed and continued uninterrupted, due to me being busy attempting to make their heart grind to a scrunching, and hopefully very very, painful halt. Once more I was confounded by the powers that be and the person did not seize their chest and die in abject agony.
"Look, sorry, don't take this the wrong way will you but this whole conversation is the mental equivalent of sweetcorn. It's only purpose is to waste my energy." I stated. Making damn sure that the look in my eyes, and on my face, conveyed my heartfelt sincerity on the matter. Jackie Braindead, however, was having none of it. And continued.
For the next five minutes or so I focused all my energy onto making my head go thermonuclear and explode, hopefully taking out as many of these idiotic people as possible. Call it a Smart Bomb... Yet again I was unsuccessful. Though to be fair I did have quite a good headache which may either be ascribed to the concentration level or the annoying sound of their voice, and promised myself that I would try harder next time.
Then came three of the most beautiful words I have ever heard in my entire life...
"Well, that's me."
I steadied myself on the bar, as I had been slightly confused by the the words.
"What?" I asked.
"I'm off." The troglodyte said, draining the dregs of his glass and picking up his mobile phone.
A "Hallelujah" resounded in my head and a small brass band began to play an upbeat tempo'd tune that wouldn't go amiss in a hip and fashionable club in Bourbon Street. Did I hear right? Had the gods observed my plight and saved me from having to listen to the ignoramus in front of me?
I watched in stunned silence as the neanderthal pressed buttons on his mobile and waved goodbye as it headed towards the door.
"Aye man, so anyway, mind I was saying she said that he said that the wifey from the chipshops daugthers cousins pal told her that there's some bird doing tricks for taxi drivers to avoid paying the fare... Well you'll never guess who it is..." It said into its mobile as it walked towards the door, leaving me to ponder if there was some kind of mental deficiency they suffered from that made them talk utter crap constantly.
I turned around and looked at the old guy at the end of the bar who, like so many others in pubs across the world, sits quietly, observing, collating and calculating the ups and downs of pub life and only ever says one of three words at a time*, and raised my eyebrows in a way that I knew would convey the sentence "That guy's a test of your patience is he not?"
The old guy lifted his glass and took a long, drink.
"He's a fucking arsehole and the sooner he's killed by a runaway truck the better." He said.
"Pint?" I asked.
"Nip." He replied.
* The three are the following,..
1. "Pint."
2. "Nip."
And 3. "Taxi."
1/18/2008
I have a question...
Perhaps you can answer it.
The question is; "When did we start pandering to namby pamby arseholes?"
The reason I ask is that I stumbled across this story in the online edition of the Guardian newspaper today...
Now the thing that strikes me as being a bit reactionary is the paragraph... "The ad attracted two complaints to the Advertising Standards Authority, one from the parent of a three-year-old boy who viewed it before the 9pm watershed. The other viewer complained that the ad glorified violence and gun crime."
What I'd like to know is what the fuck is a three year old doing up after 7.30? (This we know to be a fact as the story also states... "The ad for the Stranglehold game, which is rated 18+, had been cleared for broadcast after 7.30pm by Clearcast, the former Broadcast Advertising Clearance Centre." Surely junior should be in the land of nod at that time and not sitting watching Satan's squawkbox.
More to the point what kind of moron is willing to complain an ad "Glorified violence and gun crime" but, and I'm guessing here, is more than likely the type to watch footage of British and American soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan shooting people on the evening news and think that that doesn't glorify violence and gun crime.
A fucking idiot that's who.
And to point out how this country has now descended into farce on a grand scale when it comes to pandering to morons I'd like to state that there are roughly 60 MILLION people in the UK.
This would mean that TWO people represents 0.0000033333333333333333 of the population.
That's not even a whole person!
The question is; "When did we start pandering to namby pamby arseholes?"
The reason I ask is that I stumbled across this story in the online edition of the Guardian newspaper today...
A TV ad for a shoot-em-up video game has been banned for "encouraging and condoning violence".
The ad for the Stranglehold game, which is rated 18+, had been cleared for broadcast after 7.30pm by Clearcast, the former Broadcast Advertising Clearance Centre.
The ad showed a prolonged shoot-out between four men and the voiceover stated: "Honour is his code. Vengeance is his mission. Violence is his only option."
The ad attracted two complaints to the Advertising Standards Authority, one from the parent of a three-year-old boy who viewed it before the 9pm watershed. The other viewer complained that the ad glorified violence and gun crime.
The producer of the ad, the Picture Production Company, argued that it had edited the footage to ensure bullets were fired into mid-air and did not result in anyone being shot.
The agency said it was clear to viewers that the footage was animated gameplay and not real-life violence.
Clearcast said it approved the ad despite the violent content because the violence was stylised, unrealistic and had a fantasy quality.
Bearing in mind the lack of contact violence and absence of blood and gore, the organisation believed it was suitable for older children and could be shown after 7.30pm.
However, the ASA noted that the shooting was almost continuous and the violence, although computer-generated, appeared realistic.
The watchdog also objected to the voiceover, which it said suggested that it was honourable to seek revenge, and could therefore be seen as encouraging and condoning violence.
The ad breached the ASA's code on the clauses covering violence and cruelty as well as health and safety. The ASA ruled that the ad must be withdrawn entirely.
Last year the ASA banned an Internet ad for PlayStation 3 featuring a character armed with a knife and a gun and an ad for Electronic Arts computer game Burnout Dominator, which carried the slogan "inner peace through outer violence" and appeared on posters throughout the London Underground.
Now the thing that strikes me as being a bit reactionary is the paragraph... "The ad attracted two complaints to the Advertising Standards Authority, one from the parent of a three-year-old boy who viewed it before the 9pm watershed. The other viewer complained that the ad glorified violence and gun crime."
What I'd like to know is what the fuck is a three year old doing up after 7.30? (This we know to be a fact as the story also states... "The ad for the Stranglehold game, which is rated 18+, had been cleared for broadcast after 7.30pm by Clearcast, the former Broadcast Advertising Clearance Centre." Surely junior should be in the land of nod at that time and not sitting watching Satan's squawkbox.
More to the point what kind of moron is willing to complain an ad "Glorified violence and gun crime" but, and I'm guessing here, is more than likely the type to watch footage of British and American soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan shooting people on the evening news and think that that doesn't glorify violence and gun crime.
A fucking idiot that's who.
And to point out how this country has now descended into farce on a grand scale when it comes to pandering to morons I'd like to state that there are roughly 60 MILLION people in the UK.
This would mean that TWO people represents 0.0000033333333333333333 of the population.
That's not even a whole person!
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