Friday, October 19, 2007
Going around in circles is gay
If all the formula one drivers in the world were to lose limbs or go blind, or if the factories that make the gay little leather suits they wear, ran out of cows to skin and paint white, or if the cigarette companies or drug companies or whoever withdrew their funding so they could no longer paint those little pictures all over the cars, or if there were a sudden dearth of orange, big-titted bimbos to straddle the cars, I just wouldn't care, not a bit.
I don't hate those racing people and their ugly vehicles, I am just as uninterested - no actually less interested - as I would be if there were a circular track, and a team of Dads with petrol- powered lawnmowers, trying to cut the circuit grass as fast as possible. I suppose I do sometimes feel a slight twinge of "fuck off you lot", when one of their dire fast driving sporting events clutters up the news, but it doesn't arouse me into a state of red faced yelling. I have a quiet tut and turn it over - it is just so very fucking dull.
But I really do hate that they are trying to push their moron "stars" as sex symbols. I am more likely to get a crush on a minicab driver than a formula one driver. Driving isn't sexy - it is necessary, if you have to travel a long way and there isn't a train, or if you have a lot of stuff to carry. But driving around in a circle dressed in a jumpsuit, just seems to me to be to be incredibly, desperately, mincingly gay. Formula one - fuck off.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Do NOT go ugly early
The same thing happens to women who were ugly teens, in their later twenties. They begin to solicit sexual attention from men, whenever they get the chance. Take this one woman I knew, who was pretty-ish, but a few years previously had looked almost identical to Doris Schwartz from Fame. After relaxing the old hair, contact lenses, losing a ton of weight and teetering around in those shoes girls with thick ankles wear, simpering away at men - she started to get some male attention. But dear God, it went to her head so! I caught her bending forward and fluttering her eyelids at a man who was at least ninety and quite certainly a mong. Now I am not saying that she was a pervert with a taste for old fellers or the simple, just that if it were male - she wanted it to fancy her. Silly bint.
Anyway my point it that there is no insurance in punching below your weight. An ugly man is more dangerous than a handsome one as his vanity will know no bounds. Ugly women will try and steal other women's men more often than the beautiful - because the challenge of being chosen above someone else feeds their hungry and long-ignored egos, and what is more, the attached are often forced to shag uglier people than normal because they can't be all that choosy - since all they can offer is the odd fumble in a shit hotel, a few excruciating "if things were different" conversations and the occasional grope under the table. The same goes for the short - watch them like hawks and don't marry them. Short men are trouble and short women have to get into everyones line of sight by being either really fucking loud and bouncy and annoying or by crying a huge amount and sucking the life out of those of a decent stature. That is all.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Poles. Yawny Yawny, Yawny Yawny, Yawn.
People are obsessed with the poles. After Hitler, they are the most popular thing to talk about if you are talking about history. I rarely talk about history but if I get sucked into a chat about it you can bet it will move swifly from "Hitler made lampshades out of Jew skin" to "How many toes the latest explorer has had go black and fall off with the frostbite". Just tedious. And on the telly hardly a day goes by without an hour of snow upon snow and some ghastly group of do goodery environmentalists, mucking around with arctic hares, or tutting and watching icebergs melt a bit. And then you have those cunts who are so pushy that simply going around irritating people and boasting about their achievements in places with foliage and ground that is not made of frozen water, is not enough for them - no, these pushy fuckers feel the need to go off and race, to see who can get to the north pole or the south pole first. It used to be quite a handy evolutionary tool in ridding the world of ghastly self important "discovering" sorts, but now even a total mincing gaylord can get to the poles - it is not that hard. I watched this thing, where that irritating little catamite of Jeremy Clarkson's, who you aren't allowed to be mean about because he "nearly died" driving a very fast car, that little drip got to the North Pole on a skateboard with a kite on it and some dogs. He made a dreadful meal of the journey, of course, crying behind his goggles and shivering in a tent, but I could feel nothing but utter contempt, and massive irritation that the man has the luck of a cat, when it comes to evading death. There was no need whatsoever for him to be there on the telly shivering. He is just a desperate, awful cunt.
And don't give me "Oh but the landscape is something else" It isn't. You have a choice of frozen river, snow, snow mountains, bits of sludgy sea - less choice than you would find in a council house front garden, which might have a wall, a gate, some concrete, a bit of grass, a mattress, a car up on blocks, windows, a crisp packet, some flowers. Places whose names end in Arctic are just big blank white expanses - not daunting, not exciting, just really boring - like a colouring book when you've lost your felt-tipped pens. And what about the wildlife? - it's shite! Nictoine- stained, oversized, albino bears, that mean you can't wear deodorant in case they eat you, or slimy oily flightless birds, a few pale rabbits and foxes and that's your lot. Utter, fucking overrated crap. So shit, in fact that people resort to coming out with fascinating nuggets like: "What do you think it will say on your compass then, eh? When you are at the North pole itself", as a lame bid to make you think it is an interesting place after all. There is only one answer to that question, by the way, which is - to point out that you don't carry a compass because you aren't a freak, but instead carry a large knife which you can then use to slice toes off the Pole-lover so they can feel empathy with that pickled old cunt Ranulph Fiennes and the scrawny woman who had to come home and various other fucking tedious, driven, self-promoting grass dodging malcontents who can't just go to Spain like the rest of us.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]