I Don’t Do Sarcasm Anymore … I’m Post-Ironic

An incident occurred at around midnight which has put me in a perpetual state of pissed off, and after having spent 45 minutes on the phone to my poor friend ranting about the incident, we decided it would be a good idea for me to take advantage of my state of rage and blog about some of the other things in the world that piss me the fuck off.

1. People who stand on the wrong side of the escalators.
I fucking HATE it when people decide that it’s okay to stand on the left side of the escalators despite the fact that there are at least 20 signs saying ‘please stand on the right’. Even if you’re a fucking tourist and can’t read/understand English, you should at least be smart enough to see what everybody else is doing and follow the fucking trend. Escalators are about as fast as a sedated donkey on a good day, and so when I’m in a rush and politely ask these idiots to move the fuck out of my way, I really don’t understand why they huff and puff at me like I’ve just asked them to fucking shove a cone up their asses whilst performing the Macarena.

2. Teenagers who listen to music on the bus.
Nobody needs to hear the shit music coming from your phone. And what is the point in holding the phone up to your ear when it’s on fucking speaker anyway? You’re on the top deck and the fucking driver can hear that shit, so really, WHAT IS THE POINT? There’s these things called headphones … use them. THEY COME FREE WITH THE FUCKING PHONE. Oh … and what’s that … you want to sing along as well? Don’t. Your ’singing’ sounds more like the sound Paris Hilton’s parrot makes when trying to sing along to her songs. Shut the fuck up.

3. People who decide it’s a good idea to just stop walking.
As if people who walk slower than your average garden snail aren’t bad enough, we have these wonderful morons who decide it’s a BRILLIANT idea to just stop walking in the middle of the street for no logical reason. Bonus points to the idiots who decide to go Oxford Street with suitcases. Don’t fucking cry because I have purposely kicked your suitcase over. You fucking deserved it, now kindly fuck off.

I did have more things to add to this list, but I’ve decided to go to bed instead. So instead of crying about not having more to read, go and do something productive … like fucking yourself.

Sweet dreams.

What the fuck is wrong with the BBC lately? An article about David Cameron’s hairstyle is currently on the front page of BBC news.

Mr Cameron, who normally parts his hair to one side, had a new look for the clash with Gordon Brown on Wednesday.

How the fuck is this news, and who the fuck cares?

When I wake up on a Saturday morning with a hangover and drag myself out of bed to meet my friends at the university library to do some studying, I fully expect to actually get some studying done.

It was all going well for the first few hours when we were in our private study room, but then when we went to another section of the library, I met the biggest idiot of the week. Now, the library has places for group work where you can talk to each other, and then it has other places for silent study. This was one of those silent areas. So anyway, I sat down and started opening my books, when I noticed the guy next to me reading out his essay/notes/whatever out loud.

I tried to ignore it but then I found myself learning more about his subject, which appeared to be about how to make yourself look like a flying turd, than my own. Five minutes later the guy appeared to suffer from a case of fucktarditis and began to repeat his words with a few drops of stuttering for extra effect. He saw me giving him the evils and yet carried on.

“…may be demonstrated, d-d-demonstrated, may be demonstrated…”

Fuck off.

I looked over and he was rocking backwards and forwards reading out his work. Everyone around him was obviously getting annoyed but no one said anything, so I decided it was time to make my move. N-n-no idiot is going to take away precious studying time from my friends and I during this month of woe.

I opened up a random page in my book and started reading out loud, copying the guy with his random repeating and rocking. A bunch of people started to laugh quietly to themselves, and after I was almost done with my first paragraph about to move on to the second, the guy got up and left.

I win, motherfucker.

Dear Channel 5,
Thanks a fucking lot for ruining Neighbours 30 seconds before it started with your stupid fucking commentary. Your channel is shit, your presenters are shit, and all the shows you show (except Neighbours and CSI) are shit. Go fuck yourselves.

Dear Oprah Winfrey,
“Oprah Winfrey plans to dedicate Friday’s episode of her daytime TV talker to her beloved Cocker Spaniel, Sophie, who died last month from kidney failure.”
No one cares. (Except Elizabeth who wants to bum you).

Dear Perez Hilton,
Stop referring to yourself in the plural. It’s getting fucking old.

Dear people who can’t spell,
You see those red lines under all those words you just typed? They aren’t there for fucking decoration.

Dear Madonna,
Your songs are shit, your dancing is shit, your face is shit. Why are you still here?

Dear Republicans,
Fuck off.

Dear Angelina Jolie,
Fuck me.

America. Are you actually fucking serious? Really? First you got rid of The O.C., decided that that wasn’t enough, so you told Gilmore Girls to fuck off along with Veronica Mars. AND NOW, now you fucking fuckers, you are getting rid of The L Word.

Season 5 is going to end in 2 weeks and then the final season is going to have 8 episodes. Yes folks, we’re not even getting a full fucking season. What the fuck can you show in 8 fucking episodes? The fucking credits maybe if you’re lucky.

Showtime executives and series creator/executive producer Ilene Chaiken believed that eight additional episodes were creatively what was needed to wrap up the story lines.

Showtime, are you fucking kidding me? Do I look like I give two shits about what is creatively needed? Do the Showtime executives even watch the show? Apart from The L Word and Dexter, the network is about as good as finding out you have herpes and then getting farted in the face.

Chaiken, who created the series with Kathy Greenberg and Michele Abbott, said the show will live on, interactively.

“This is by no means the end of ‘The L Word,”‘ she said. “The brand and the social network community, OurChart.com, will continue to live [as a] lasting tribute to what ‘The L Word’ has accomplished.”

WHO THE FUCK EVEN VISITS OURCHART.COM? I just went on it now to see what was on there, and let me tell you, it sucks. WHAT IS IT EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE? Do I look like I want to talk to other fans of the show about storylines that will never happen? NO. Do I look like I want to make a fucking profile so that other people can find me? NO. Do I look like I will ever fucking visit ourchart.com again? FUCKING NO.

GO FUCK YOURSELVES SHOWTIME. AND WHEN YOU’RE DONE, GO FUCK JENNIFER FUCKING SCHECTER.

Note: If any actors/creators associated with The L Word ever read this, then all the hate above is not directed towards you and don’t hate me please. :p

There are two types of people in this world: those I like and those I don’t like. Stan* is one of the people I want to introduce to Jenny Schecter. Why would I want to ruin this poor guy’s life, you ask? Because he ruined mine, that’s why. You see, Stan is the new manager at my local pub and he is obviously missing something vital in his head, like I don’t know maybe his cerebral cortex. Why? Because yesterday the fucking genius got rid of the pool table.

Now I don’t know on what planet he thinks this was a good idea because from where I’m standing it’s the stupidest fucking idea I have ever had the displeasure of hearing about. He thinks by removing the pool table and adding two extra tables of the chair accompanying kind, the pub will make more money. Um, what? Now, I am friends with 95% of the bar staff and they tell me the pool table brings in about £200 a week. I know for a fact that my friends and I contribute greatly to that sum. How much more money exactly does he think two measly tables are going to make? HUH STAN, YOU FUCKTARD?! THE PUB DOESN’T EVEN GET FULL UNLESS IT’S THE WEEKEND YOU MOTHERFUCKER.

Not only did Stan get rid of the pool table but he is also planning on getting rid of the quiz machine. All the staff hate him and now I HATE HIM TOO. My friends who work at the pub were going to warn me of when he was planning to get rid of the pool table so we could all go and protest, BUT HE DIDN’T EVEN TELL THEM. HE JUST DID IT. MOTHERSUCKINGFUCKER!

I hate you Stan. I’m going to pretend to be Phoebe and sing outside the pub now so all the customers leave. YEAH.

* Real name changed at the request of my lawyer. :p

***UPDATE***
Last week I created a facebook group expressing my dislike for the plans to remove the pool table. I just got a text from one of my friends who works in the pub, saying: “Hey, I would suggest closing the save the pool table group on facebook. Stan knows about the group and he is not happy about it! x” WELL Stan, I’M NOT HAPPY ABOUT YOUR FACE.

Good going, T-Mobile.

For 2 weeks now the website has been undergoing maintenance so I haven’t been able to pay my phone bill. Today I finally decided to call them up and pay by phone. I got one of those automated things where you type in all the details and it does it automatically. It appears T-Mobile didn’t want to get paid because having tried this method 3 times and having failed 3 times it transferred me to a person who was obviously trying their hardest to get fired.

T-Mob: Hello, my name is cutthroatbitch, how can I help you?
Me: I’d like to make a payment please.
T-Mob: Are you the account holder?
Me: No, but my name is on the account with account holder privileges.
T-Mob: I’m afraid only the account holder can make a payment.
Me: I don’t want any account details, I just want to give money to the company you are working for so they can then pass on some of that money to you for supposedly doing your job you stupid bitch.
T-Mob: Ok can you confirm your address?
Me: *confirms address*
T-Mob: How much do you want to pay?
Me: *gives all relevant info*
T-Mob: Ok the payment has gone through. Is there anything else I can help you with?
Me: Yes, I–
T-Mob: I’m sorry, I can only speak to the account holder.
Me: …

In other news, I’m going to see the Spice Girls on Sunday. Don’t hate.

Dear Wembley Arena,

If you are going to have a ‘no professional cameras’ rule, can you please employ some individuals who know the slightest fucking detail about cameras. You know, just enough detail to know what a professional fucking camera is, and to know that mine does not count as one.

Yours,
A Gwen Stefani fan with no photos

It is no secret that I hate animals. Ok, maybe hate is the wrong word. It is no secret that I dislike certain animals … the smaller an animal gets, the more I dislike it. For example, I love horses and horse riding, but when I look at cats I just think about the many diseases they have the potential of carrying. I have come to terms with the fact that these animals exist and I have learnt to accept their existence. However, there is one type of creature I cannot and will never be able to stand: The bugs. Why the fuck are they even here? Even the word ‘bug’ is trouble, just ask any computer programmer … though those bugs are the least of my worries at the moment. Right now I’m talking about the shit eating, light loving, life threatening bugs that inhabit our planet Earth. Why do I hate them? Many reasons, including the fact that one of them almost killed me about 20 minutes ago. I will tell you how, just let me go grab my portable ECG machine and check my heart is starting to go back to beating normally first.

Alright so imagine this: It is 11:40pm, I am home alone sitting at my desk playing around with the music in itunes when suddenly I see a movement in my peripheral vision. I automatically get up, grab my phone and move away without even looking. It’s a reflex mechanism I have come to develop over the years. From a safe distance I now look to see what the fuck caused my heart to skip a beat, and there it is. A species I have never ever in my 20 years of living seen before. It has long, thin, glowing antennae, a golden-beige coloured shiny plump body, and orange legs so fucking long they make Peter Crouch look normal. I immediately send a text message to my friend so that if anything should happen to me, the police have a record of the last time I was known to be alive and the cause of my demise. At this point the creature which I’m quite sure lives in a UFO somewhere, has moved across my desk onto my books. It’s moving faster than I dare to think about, so I name it Michael Schumacher. Just as I am about to attempt to take a photo of Michael, IT FUCKING DISAPPEARS INTO THIN AIR. WHAT DOES THAT? Now I’m actually pretty sure my death is near so I ring my father, and practically hysterical down the phone, I tell him he needs to come to my location immediately and go Jack Bauer on Michael’s ass. I am about to give him my exact coordinates when I hear a noise. Is it Michael? No, it’s my father laughing uncontrollably down the phone. I realise his help will not be here any time soon so I hang up and try to find another way out of the trap I am in. I guess before coming to kill me, Michael killed Harry Potter because I’m pretty sure he is in possession of an invisibility cloak. I look around for him for 5 minutes to no avail, so I decide to grab my laptop. As I am taking out the power cord I spot something and jump. Was it Michael? No. It was my fucking SHADOW. This fucker has got me jumpy as hell. I finally unplug everything and laptop in hand, I run to the living room. Finally safe, I proceed to send a text message to notify my friend that I am still alive when I feel something on my phone so I throw it to the ground [yeah, another damn reflex mechanism]. No, there was nothing on my phone. I’m just wigging out like Weird Al Yankovic.

I’m not brave enough to go back to my bedroom just yet to actually publish this entry because my blood pressure still thinks it’s a yo-yo. I do have one concern, however; they say your life flashes before your eyes when you are near death but I didn’t see my raunchy affair with Milo Ventimiglia anywhere between then and now.

… Alright fine, that only happened in my imagination, but one can still dream.

First thing I’m doing tomorrow? Calling the Men in Black.

Located in what used to be the millennium dome, new music venue the o2 opened in 2007 and has since received a lot of good publicity with big names such as Barbra Streisand and Justin Timberlake performing there. Last week I had the pleasure, and I use the term lightly, of visiting the venue. At first I was very impressed; queuing indoors surrounded by lots of restaurants is great for winter concerts, the way in which the crowd is slowly walked into where the stage is located is a great way of ensuring people stay in line unlike other venues such as Wembley, where once past the bag checks, people proceed to form a human stampede. This good impression however didn’t last very long.

Now, before entering the arena I wasn’t very convinced about the fact that the stage was located in the middle with the crowd surrounding it in a circle, and now I know why. Yes ladies and gentlemen, of all the concerts I have been to, and there have been a fair few, this had to have been the most idiotically designed stage that my brain has ever had the pleasure of processing. Whoever the hell designed it must have gotten the blueprints from a Christmas cracker; there’s no other explanation as to why anyone, nincompoop or not, would want to design such a headache inducing arena. After spending just 5 minutes there I had already called my psychiatrist and arranged anger management classes. Seriously, who decided it would be a good idea to charge 60 pounds [$120] per ticket, and then have a stage so brilliantly designed that 50% of the time the artist was out of view to one half of the crowd? As if this circular piece of crap wasn’t enough, it also had the great skill of having a middle which lifted up and down. Now picture this: you have been queuing to see your favourite artist and you finally enter and are front row. The lights go down and the crowd begins to scream. The stage rises with your favourite singer in the center. Oh wait … no … what’s that … where did he go? Is it a microphone? Is it a speaker? No. It’s the guitarist, pianist, bassist and the rest of the fucking wannabe philharmonic orchestra surrounding the singer and thus blocking the view. Oh wait a minute … are they about to move out of the wa- … what the … what the fuck is that coming down? A … screen? Are they actually kidding me? Fuck off.

Despite all this, I do have to admit that this venue did have the best sound out of all the major venues that I have been to. However, I can sit in my bedroom, put a CD into my surround sound entertainment system and alternate between staring at a poster of an artist hidden behind some objects and a blank wall for free.

To summarise, this venue has more problems than Nicole Richie driving down the wrong way of a one-way street. Sort it out.