I came across this board tonight (and when I say I came across it, I don’t mean that I ejaculated over it, I mean that I walked past it, you dirty minded fucks.) :
No seriously, you guys are bullshitting me, right? Cheap drinks during happy hour? I NEVAR WOULD HAVE THUNK IT!
Your faggotry earns you the Eric Bana Oh Der! award:
Supposedly it’s Tuesday.
Steve is shopping for a new motorcycle. He finally finds one for a great price. It looks outstanding, even though it’s almost ten years old. He asks the guy, “How in the hell did you make it look so new?” The guy says, “You know, you’ll think I’m crazy. But before it rains, cover the bike in Vaseline every time. It keeps it looking like new. Hell,” he says, “take this jar. I won’t need it anymore.”
About a week later, Steve’s girlfriend is having him over for dinner to meet her parents. He drives his new bike to her house, where she is outside waiting for him. “No matter what happens at dinner tonight, don’t say a word,” she tells him. “Our family has this arrangement where the first person to speak during dinner has to do all the dishes.”
“Ok…” Steve says, somewhat confused.
Steve sits down for dinner with his girlfriend and her family. For a while, everyone’s eating in silence. Steve’s enjoying the meal, but the couple of glasses of wine are starting to go to his head. So Steve decides to have a little fun. He grabs his girlfriend, throws her on the table, and fucks her in front of her parents. His girlfriend is a little flustered, her dad is obviously livid, and her mother is horrified when he sits back down, but no one says a word.
A few minutes later, Steve thinks, “Man! They’re serious about these dishes. I wonder…” He grabs his girlfriend’s mum, throws her on the table, and does a repeat performance. Now his girlfriend is furious, her dad is boiling, and her mother a little happier. But still there is complete silence at the table.
All of a sudden there is a loud clap of thunder, and it starts to rain. Steve remembers his motorcycle. He jumps up and grabs his jar of Vaseline. Upon witnessing this, his girlfriend’s father backs away from the table and screams, “OKAY, ENOUGH ALREADY. I’LL DO THE DAMN DISHES!!”
Yep.
Yes, it’s been a few days since I updated. See, the thing is that I’ve been busy and had more important shit to do. But that’s all over with, and now I’m back.
Before I get into the Cockroach Award, thanks to Cory who sent me an awesome birthday present: The current issue of The Picture! Amazingly, there’s probably about 6 skanks in there worthy of The Soft-on Files. Of course, I shall post them in good time. I did note that Cory was too lazy (or cheap) to buy an envelope, so he sent it wrapped in pieces of A4 paper stickytaped together.
Furthermore, Rachy did promise an exciting birthday present, which so far hasn’t turned up. I suspect she will bleat “But I’m a cripple in a wheelchair, what do you want me to do?”, but I say fuck that. Not good enough.
Thanks to everyone else for the awesome birthday comments.
Enough with the circlejerking. On with the award:
Due to combined birthday shenannigans last week, a group of associates of the Spatula Publishing Conglomerate dined at Bhoj, an Indian restaurant located in the Docklands. What a fucking mistake that was.
See, I don’t mind paying good money for good food. But it has to be fucking good food. Also, the staff have to know what the fuck they are doing. In this case, we paid good money for mostly alright food, but had to deal with an arrogant manager and wait staff who appeared to have stepped off the Air India flight that morning.
The manager of Bhoj Docklands needs to realise that demanding that a pram isn’t welcome inside the restaurant and must be left outside doesn’t really make people with babies feel welcome. After a bit of a barney, said pram was brought inside and placed in a corner - where it affected no one. So, strike fucking one right there.
Next up, it’s a fucking good idea to actually give customers a menu, so food can be selected and ordered. Sending a waiter over 30 minutes after being seated to take food orders is fucking useless if you aren’t going to hand out menus beforehand, right? Especially pertinent if you’re telling us to “hurry up and order” so you can close your fucking kitchen. Second strike.
It’s also a good idea that you listen carefully to people who mention they have allergies to certain foodstuffs, especially when potential allergic reactions lead to serious health issues. So, fuckwits, when someone orders a PLAIN RICE without saffron, it fucking well means exactly that. The contaminated dish of rice sent one member of our group into a severe asthmatic attack that almost required hospitalization. STRIKE THREE!
Just to give them a fourth strike, here’s a good idea: When someone says they didn’t receive a naan bread, a waiter shouldn’t fucking argue and insist repeatedly that said naan was never ordered. Instead, shut the fuck up, get the naan and bring it to the fucking table. That’s your job, cunt.
Also, when I order a Beef Korma, I expect to get something that resembles a curry. To me, a curry is some form of meat and/or vegetable dish with a spicy sauce. You know, the sort that possibly makes your ring burn the next time you take a shit. What I don’t expect to get is chunks of beef in a tasteless gray gravy with no hint of spiciness whatsofuckingever.
However, the naan breads were quite delicious, as were the various entrees that were ordered. It was this, and this alone, that saved these cunts from getting all 5 cockroaches.
They claim that Bhoj means “feast” in Indian. I claim it means “Dumb cunts who can’t run a decent restaurant”. Fuck all of them there.
I’m giving them 4 cockroaches out of 5.
(remember, the more cockroaches, the shittier they are!)
Well, fuck me. I made it to 30.
Here’s a list of things to be achieved today, in no particular order:
Now that I’m 30, I expect life to go downhill quite rapidly. Trade in the Commodore for a Camry (complete with straw hat on the parcel shelf), write letters to the local newspaper complaining about hoons travelling in my street after 8pm, doing gardening, going on day trips in the local council senior citizen bus and all that other shit.
I also heard that your penis stops working at 30. Time will tell on that one.
Hmm.
It’s a day late, but for all I care you can all go fuck a dead wombat.
Jesus and Satan were having an ongoing argument about who was better on the computer. They’d been going at it for days, and God was tired of hearing all of the bickering.
Finally God said, “Cool it, you two! I’m gong to set up a test that will run two hours, and I’ll judge who does the better job.”
So Satan and Jesus sat down at the keyboards and typed away. They moused. They did spreadsheets. They wrote reports. They sent emails. They sent out emails with attachments. They sent faxes. They downloaded. They did genealogy reports. They made cards. They did every known job.
But 10 minutes before their time was up, lightning suddenly flashed across the sky, thunder clapped, the rain poured, and, of course, the electricity went off.
Satan stared at his blank screen and screamed every curse word known in the underworld. Jesus just sighed. The electricity finally flickered back on, and each of them restarted their computers.
Satan started searching frantically and screamed, “It’s gone! It’s all gone! I lost everything when the power went off!”
Meanwhile, Jesus quietly printed out all of his files from the past two hours of diligent work. Satan observed this and became irate.
“Wait!” he cried. “Jesus cheated! How did he do it?”
God shrugged his shoulders and said, “Jesus saves.”
I thank you.
The other night the young lady and I were bored, and we were trying to roll our R’s when we spoke. I couldn’t do it, but she did it wonderfully.
Perhaps I’m good at it because I spend most of my spare time making car noises.
Oh, she’s a keeper.
Way back in the day when I was much younger, sometime in the mid-90s, I managed to escape my incarceration from Brighton Secondary College. The place was a complete fucking shithole. From what I hear, it still is. My basis for this was mainly sub-standard facilities (eg XT and 286 computers in 1995, apart from a smattering of Pentium boxes for the exclusive use of VCE students, which even then their use was dictated by a senile old fuckwit), dilapidated classrooms with poor ventilation and no air-conditioning, portable classrooms with no ventilation at all, a poor selection of electives, and so forth.
I remember dearly the time when the school received a building grant from the Government of the day, which, from memory was somewhere in the order of about $1million. Of course, the entire amount was spent upgrading the office and teacher facilities, with nothing going to upgrading student facilities.
What made the place somewhat bearable was the two blokes in charge. The principal and the vice-principal were pretty cool. Then that all went to shit. They both left, replaced by two women who were present only to satisfy their own little power trips. Yes, Julie Podbury and Linda Ward. To this very day I hate them both. More so than than I hate broccoli.
So, it was no surprise that Podbury has found her way into today’s Herald Sun, in an article about the length of skirts being worn by students there:
School Uniforms Come Up Short
SUMMER Heights High “hotty” Ja’mie King would not be impressed, but the college where the hit ABC comedy was filmed has banned short skirts.With micro-skirt fashions flooding the catwalks and stores, schoolgirls across Melbourne are donning pieces as little as 18cm long.
Brighton Secondary College principal Julie Podbury has had enough and wants to stop girls wearing skirts that leave little to the imagination.
…
“Many of our female students must have grown a lot lately as the skirts suddenly seem VERY short,” she wrote. “Can we please ensure the skirts are a decent length.”
Nail polish, heavy make-up, unbuckled T-bar shoes, undone ties, shirts hanging loose and socks over stockings are also on the hit list.
But students at the school are refusing to follow the rules.
Year 10 students Apryl Watson and Lulu Cohen said they were tired of the strict dress code.
“Brighton acts too much like a private school when it comes to uniforms,” Apryl, 16, said.
…
For obvious reasons, I really have nothing against teenage girls wearing short skirts. Unless they are fat chicks.
But, I can’t get over the fact that this bitch is so fucking worried about things like nail polish and socks over stockings. When I was there, rules like that existed but were rarely followed up. I really cannot fathom exactly how a little bit of nail polish or makeup is really going to affect someones education.
“You only got a C in English!? Maybe if you didn’t wear nail polish like a goddam trollop you would have done better *SLAP*”. Not likely for that scenario to take place.
If you read through the recent newsletters from Brighton SC, you can see all the retarded bullshit rules that Podbury and her retarded group are dumping on the students. I’m surprised that students there these days are even allowed to breathe without having to get permission from the school first.
Although, it does make me wonder if the man-hating dyke that is Linda Ward is still wearing her god-awful mansuits with the excessive shoulder padding? Perhaps that bitch should be taking a look at herself before passing judgement on others.
In conclusion, fuck you Julie Podbury, and fuck you Linda Ward. In fact, fuck all the staff at Brighton SC. You all need to go die in a house fire.
Edit:
Well, fuck me sideways, I even managed to find a photo of the man-hating dyke Linda Ward, straight from the Brighton SC webpage. I was right! Still in man-suits and still got the shoulder pads going.
Immediately after Google launched the Australian version of Street View, the privacy advocates (or, in more common terms, “whinging fuckwits”) were out in force making their views known through various media outlets and through comments on various online news articles.
Most follow the same general theme:
HOW DARE GOOGLE PHOTOGRAPH MY HOUSE AND PUT IT ON THE INTARWEBS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1111one MY PRIVACY OUTRAGEOUS ARGHRAHRAHAHR
Fucking wankers. All of them.
Then there’s this snippet from an article in the Herald Sun:
Critics say Street View can catch people in compromising positions and is open to abuse by criminals, who can map escape routes.
Really? And what’s to say criminals couldn’t do that with a fucking printed map or perhaps just casing out the area before pulling off a job? Fuck these cunts are dumb. I’m no Google fanboi, but for fucks sake, build a fucking bridge and get the fuck over it.
Personally, I don’t give two metric fucks about a photograph of my house being on the internet.
I’m sure, if someone really wanted to, they could probably find out a lot more about someone via other means than just looking up an address via Google Maps. By putting in a random address (which, in this case, I chose 15 Cameron St Airport West - completely random), all I’ve been able to find out is that whoever fucking lives there drives a crappy old Ford Falcon.
However, by doing a search of the Australian Whitepages for people with the last name of Smith, I came across one bloke called “Ron Smith”. Thanks to the Whitepages, I also discovered that he lives at 14 Ross St in Nagambie, Victoria, and his home telephone number is (03) 5794 2717. They even provide a link to a map showing the location of his house. Quite helpful should you be writing a blog entry and wanted to drive to Nagambie and say, oh I don’t know, take a photo of his house.
And for reference, the Google Maps version.
All done WITHOUT the help of Google, by using a single web page.
Perhaps the fucking privacy advocates should remove their heads from their collective sand filled anuses and consider there is more to the internet than whatever Google has on offer, and there’s a LOT more personal fucking information available elsewhere.
I would apologise to Ron Smith of Nagambie, but fuck it. His details were already publicly listed on the internet, and I was standing on a public road when I took the photo. Plus people from Nagambie are too fucking old and stupid to use the internet, so I highly doubt Ron will ever read this.
I’ve always said that it’s exceptionally dangerous to leave me alone for any extended period of time, mainly because I tend to think. Having had this entire week off from the old ‘glomerate, I have once again been proven correct.
Like any other guy, I enjoy a good fart. It’s exceptionally pleasurable to release a fart, attempting to maintain maximum volume, while hoping that you don’t follow through. Bonus points for letting rip in a bathroom or such, where the acoustics amplify the soothing sound.
Of course, there’s nothing worse than a female fart. Wimmens will often claim they don’t fart, or that if they do, it’s all fucking rainbows and kittens and candy. But, we all know that wimmens are lying bitches, and probably fart more often than guys. They are just better at hiding it. Not that guys really want to hide it - we’re proud of our farts. But girl farts smell fucking rancid. And they are silent. Silent, but deadly. You all know the score: you’re chillin’ in bed with one of these chicks, and there will be the sudden smell of rotten girly gas all over the room, with no hope of escape no matter where you go. To top it off, they’ll probably fucking deny it too, or claim they can’t smell anything.
When I was in my car the other day, I put one of those Ambi Pur air freshener things in my car - and that’s where my so-called dangerous thinking came into play:
Perhaps, maybe, it would be fantastic if some company marketed a range of fart fresheners. Small, tiny devices you shove up your back passage, and when you fart, they pepper the noxious gas with pleasant odours…. just like the Ambi Pur in my car.
This way guys wouldn’t feel embarrassed about farting in front of chicks, and perhaps they might even be encouraged to do so. “Do you smell that lovely fragrance, darling? Oh wait, you farted! So nice of you to mix it with that scent I love so much. Oh, I’m so horny now, let’s fuck! I’ll even let you put it in my pooper!”.
Everyone would win: Guys could fart, girls would enjoy it, and people get laid. At least I’m pretty sure that’s how it would go.
Last night I took part in the recording of the GrodsCorp podcast, Groupthink #27.
I strongly suggest you mosey over to their blog and download it. And maybe even listen to it.
