I’m Telex You, Gestetner Fax Outta Here!

What the prolapsed rectum is with people who persist in using fax machines? I’m sorry but there’s no fucking excuse anymore. NO FUCKING EXCUSE!!! Get out of the cunting stone age, you great-grandmotherfuckers! 

 

I had mistakenly believed the enduring references to fax numbers on letterheads and business cards were just an indication of a laziness in updating stationery. If the last few days are anything to go by, however, I am wrong and there is army of tree-murdering recalcitrants out there desperately hanging on to their fax machines and forcing others to use them in the hope they’ll eventually acquire some kind of office-retro coolness. It’s pitifully fucked. 

 

I applied for two jobs recently where the recruitment monkeys asked if I could fax my resume in. Could I? I don’t know, could you go fuck yourself in the arse with a big rubber prick? To the first I replied: 

No, I’ll have to email you, I don’t have a fax machine. 

 

I was perplexed. People still use these things? WHY? Why would you use a fucking fax machine? They suck! How’s carrier pidgeon, will that do? I just don’t get it. The second time it happened I was got fucked off, however, I tried to remain cool and nonchalantly replied: 

No, I’ll have to e-mail you. My fax machine’s been less than reliable since I chopped into pieces with an axe. 

 

There was a stunned silence as the HR guy tried to process this information until, finally, he gave a weak: 

Ahm…I’m sorry? 

 

I don’t have a fax, dude, I’ve got a computer…and…I was messing with you. 

 

Nothing. Why is it that the people who work in human resources are the people with the least grip on humanity? Maybe it’s the same crushing irony of careers advisors - what a shit job, why would anyone listen to them ever? 

 

I applied for yet another job, a real job I had thought. I was reasonably interested in the business, the position looked promising…until I received a call from them requesting my fax number so they could send me some information to look over before the interview. 

How about I give you my email address? 

 

The vacant and, I assume, blonde entity on the other end of the phone gave a petulant sigh and tried to ply me for the path of least resistance:

Your fax number would be a lot quicker…for us, you know. 

 

I somehow doubt that – I don’t have a fax. Could you TELEX me?

 

Oh, I don’t know…I don’t think we have that…well, is there a fax at your post office? Or…well, I suppose I could send it by regular mail but there’s no guarantee you’d have much time with it before the interview… 

 

The job had lost all its lustre. It was dead to me now.

My Post Office? What the fuck? Are you calling me from the past? What the shat-in-fridge is wrong with you? E-mail, you stinking fucker! Have you not heard of it? It’s great: it doesn’t kill trees, it doesn’t degrade the quality of documents, it doesn’t cost you money and it has fuck all of a carbon footprint, BINT! You know what? Fuck you! FUCK YOU!!! Take the documents, the interview, the job and your whole company, fax it all to yourself, roll it up and shove it up your ARSE!!! I hate you! I fucking hate your short-sighted, environmentally cancerous, shit-sucking, lazy fuckedness! I hope to find you trapped under a vending machine early one Tuesday morning after a long weekend, a breath away from death so your last memory can be me hanging a big steaming shit into your gasping mouth!!!

 Hmm…that’d have to confuse the Jesus out of the forensic team, wouldn’t it? 

 

I digress. Unfortunately, none of that tirade actually came out of my mouth. I did manage to impart that if the facility of e-mail was too complicated for her company then I probably wasn’t too interested in working there, gave her my e-mail address and hung up. Yep, Won’t be hearing from those bastards. You wonder why I’m trapped in my dead-end limbo existence? Too bad. Fuck it!

 

Faxes have no place in our world except perhaps in a Museum For Boring Shit That Always Sucked. They’re a bad piece of equipment - they ruin everything, they jam like bastards, they use that stupid replica toilet paper and they have been thoroughly superceded in the most remote parts of the planet for well over a decade. Anyone who ever uses one now is obviously a complete CUNT and should be beaten to death with their stupid, cunty, shit-ridden fax machine for being an irredeemably FUCKED human being. GET FUCKED!!!

Confidence – if your singing career’s gone to crap, just get your tits out!

What the fuck’s going on in the world? I thought I had a fair handle on it all, the 80’s were over and even The Church Of Scientology was failing to help Kate Ceberano from fading into obscurity where she belongs. All of a sudden everywhere I turn, on bus shelters and the appropriately-obsolete phone boxes there she is: moose-jawed, proud-as-punch, showing off her tits.

Those who know me will understand how out-of-character it is for me to complain about tits on display – I’m a big fan of breasts. I guess, I just don’t really need Kate’s. Again, I’m glad she’s not singing and before everyone goes mental – yes, I do applaud the use of models with real bodies as opposed to the photoshopped, surgically-enhanced skeletons who resemble pre-pubescent boys that we’re usually bombarded with.

What I don’t like is the Ceberano. Considering all the impoverished but talented, hard-working musicians out there, Kate Ceberano has made a killing out of being complete bollocks. It’s an insult, it’s a travesty, it gives me the CUNT!!! And then to top it all off, when she should have crawled off to die quietly in a corner somewhere, when even the deaf wankers who liked her have forgotten her and jumped on the Andrea Bocelli band-wagon, she turns up again as wank-fodder for the homeless. I’m fucked if I understand this move, the campaign is just so crass.

Is it just denial? Is she so out of touch she feels that a flash of the norks is a way back into the ears of Australia? Is it just another piece of couch-jumping-maniacally-optimistic craziness? Hey, yeah - bugger integrity, let’s just plumb the depths of desperation and do a dodgy lingerie campaign: sex sells records, Kate, and fuck knows you’ve never had anything to offer as an artist, this may be the career defibrillation you need - get ‘em out!!! Kate Ceberano gives me roaring-vindaloo shits and I wish she would just put them away and fuck the fucking-fuck off!

You Wouldn’t Steal A Car - Rip & Burnout!

DVD copyright warnings. What the cat-fisting Jesus is with all the warnings? I mean, I go to the shop and buy a DVD. I fucking well BUY it! I take it home and before I’m allowed to watch the fucking thing that I own for fuck’s sake I have to sit through a warning about what will happen if I steal, copy or profit from its piracy. I fucking own it and I have to put up with this accusatory bullshit before I can watch what I legally own! It’s not even like the good old VHS days when you could fast forward through all the shit to get to the good stuff, you have to watch it. And not just once! When you’ve got through one warning you then get a lame-arsed commercial to crappy warning music with fast edits flashing slogans telling you: You wouldn’t steal a car! You wouldn’t steal a handbag! and a whole bunch of other shit so Don’t steal movies! and Movie piracy is stealing! and blah blah shit shit shit. WHAT THE FUCK??? I CUNTING WELL OWN IT, YOU DRIBBLING, SYPHILLITIC NOB-ENDS!!! Even if I didn’t own it, even if I’d just rented it from the fucking video store, isn’t it a bit presumptuous to assume I’m going to want to steal it before I’ve even watched the cunting thing? For fuck’s sake, what if it sucks? Why the fuck would I steal a turd?

 

Having bought Season 3 of The Mighty Boosh and put it in my player, part-way through the multiple warnings I’ll have to watch every time I want to view the DVD, I got so fucked off I just stood up and stomped my coffee table to pieces Eh, master-race IKEA bullshit, I always despised you anyway! took the pieces out into my courtyard, doused them in lighter fluid and incinerated them. I felt a little better and as the flames of triumphant fury warmed my face I started thinking about why the DVD companies should feel the need to have so many warnings cluttering up their shit.

 

Why? Fucking why have multiple warnings about piracy before and after films as well as all over the packaging? DVDs I’ve bought from the USA have FBI warnings on them for shit’s sake! Watch out, bitches, the fuckin’ feds are comin’ to bust yo punk ass!!! It all seems a pretty heavy-handed policy of intimidation but it’s all undone by the commercials with their imploring consumers to do the right thing. To the untrained eye it would appear almost as though they’re trying to prevent something they have absolutely no control over, you know, like when kittens puff all their fur up and walk sideways in an attempt to look frightening. Except, of course, kittens are cute and they don’t prevent you watching movies you’ve paid for with a never-ending stream of pissing and moaning about what they’ll do to you if you avoid their copy-protection systems with easily-available freeware applications and burn exact digital replicas of their product rather than forking out ridiculous amounts of money for an obsolete media format. Well, be realistic, if they did you’d just lock them in the kitchen and sit down and enjoy your movie without them.

 

You wouldn’t steal a car! Well, let’s think about that: If I could steal it by cheaply making an exact replica so I’d have exactly the same car but the owner wouldn’t know I’d done it nor would he lose any benefit of his car and I’d probably never ever get caught for it- fuck it, wouldn’t I steal it? Of course I fucking would! I’d have a yard full of faux-Ferraris, Lamborghinis, you fucking name it, I’d never watch a fucking movie again!

 

If anyone has software for copying furniture please e-mail me, I need to pirate a coffee table, I’ve been spending too much money on DVDs!

It’s The McNews, McBitches!!!

Back when I started publishing my rage I did a post on McDonald’s and how fuckin’ furious they make me. Some people got it and naturally I also got a bunch of comments from gormless fuck-stains in denial about the corporate evil being perpetrated by corporations like McDonald’s. To all those fuck-stains: eat my shit, you suck!!!

Now I find this story saying McDonald’s have begun paying to have their product placed in news programs. ON THE FUCKING NEWS!!! The traditional territory of at least some illusion of impartiality has become an open field for corporate spruiking through product placement. Objectivity? Eat my arse! Naturally, the dirty, whoring, sycophant executives accepting this filthy lucre have been keen to state that maccas won’t be influencing news content at all. But how can we believe them? Do we realistically believe they would ever dare bite that big, fat, clown-hand now feeding them.

Recent statistics reveal obesity as the fastest growing cause of death in our country [sips from McDonald’s cup, winks at camera] but this tastes great and there are healthy options now too, so keep eating the grease, kids, and just get your doorways widened!

This marks a new low in media whorishness. Why even call it news anymore? How can we even tell when the commercials are over? This really shits my bed - any news program that accepts sponsorship in this way should be fire-bombed on principle. The only reasonable answer to this level of desperate, money-grubbing emptiness is with uncensored, mindless violence. Oh, yeah, anger management, incarceration - yeah, I’m the crazy person, I mean we live in a world where nothing exists that cannot be bought, but I’m the terrorist! I implore the benevolent scientists out there working on The Stupid Bomb to redouble their efforts. Bring on the fuckhead apocalypse! Fuckin’ stupid humans!

 

So it’s not funny - fuck you, I never said it was. You want funny, go here.

Friends Don’t Let Friends Wear Crocs.

 

There are lines that cannot be crossed. There are circumstances that require definitive action, that demand you take a stand in the name of all you hold dear. I had to take that stand this weekend. A dear, long-time school friend visited Melbourne. We rarely catch up and I was excited, we went out for beer as is our wont. He turned up in Crocs.

 

I ordered a jug of beer. I poured, we cheersed. Eye contact. Hmm…I looked at his feet again. Pale blue plastic special shoes. I couldn’t let it go.

What the fuck are they?

 

He laughed.

You like ‘em?

No. Seriously, are they yours?

Maybe he’s borrowed them. Maybe someone stole his real shoes…

Yeah. They’re really comfortable.

Cunt! What have you done with Harry? Who the fuck are you?

 

They are the fuckedest footwear in the history of the world, I would rather have my legs cut off than wear them. They’re cuntfully ugly, they are completely anti-fashion, they are everything that is wrong with the world. When The Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse come at the end of days they’ll be wearing Crocs, they’ll have shit-eating grins plastered all over their skeletal faces and they’ll be saying things like: They’re really comfortable, party’s over folks!

 

This is the line. This far and no further. But, I didn’t stand up. I didn’t have the heart. Sometimes you just have to walk away. I had a polite but short evening with Harry. The beer just didn’t taste right. I didn’t bother berating him on the Crocs, there was no point, he’s one of them now. I just left and deleted his number from my mobile phone. Harry is not my friend anymore. He can’t be because he wears Crocs. Anything I may once have loved in that man, every part of our friendship, died the moment he put on those aesthetically abhorrent pieces of shit.

 

Why do I hate Crocs, you ask? They are not real shoes. It’s that simple. They are toys. Real shoes come in many shapes, sizes and colours but they all have something in common. You can’t have a shit in them and just hose it out. I mean, you can, but there will be evidence of it. There will be something, even microscopic that would to the trained eye tell you that the shoes had been shat in. Crocs, no. Shit in them whenever you like, it just hoses out. That is NOT right and I can’t engage with anyone who lives in that world so GET FUCKED!!!

 

According to this article, if you’re a Croc wearing fuck-waste, you can highlight the visibility of your lobotomised shitness by decorating your crocs with all manner of colourful banality, flowers, butterflies, cocker spaniels, you name it I’ll stab your fuckin’ eyes out with it because you cast a shadow of hopelessness and arseful fuckedness on my species and I would sooner nuke the whole planet than see this rankness go any further.

 

According to this pile of dog shit, Crocs also are now are the medically endorsed footwear for people with type 2 diabetes. Not so fuckin’ cool now, are they? Yet another reason to despise Crocs.

Hey, are you fat as a house? Is your skeleton crumbling under the weight of your chronic over-indulgence in clown food? Why don’t you squeeze your bloated stumps into some fuckin’ rubbery clown shoes?

 

Crocs - you’re a fat cunt anyway, you can’t see your feet, why should you give a fuck what other people think?

 

Crocs – because suicide requires strength of character!

 

The harsh reality is that we all deteriorate with age. Gradually we lose our edge and become blurry, softened shadows of our former selves. It’ll happen to me one day too, I’m under no illusions, but hopefully there’ll be someone ready to strike me down with a cricket bat and dash my brains out if I ever start wearing Crocs. It’s the same as those hideous middle aged couples who dress in identical non-gender specific beige K-mart outfits, it’s unnecessary and unbearably shit. It shows that you no longer have an individual identity. You’ve fuckin’ lost it! When people lose their grip on reality to this extent it is time to kill them. I’ll miss you, Harry, you were my friend but now you’re just a fuckwit.

Get Ya Han’ Off It!

In Australia we have a saying. When I was growing up it was something of a catch cry. It was an emphatic indication to the recipient that whatever they’d been saying was complete wank, that they were by default a complete wanker and, therefore, that they should shut up. Get ya hand off it! That said it all.

 

 

I watched the movie Hancock yesterday and the cry came back to me. I love a good superhero movie, truth be told I don’t even mind a bad one on the odd occasion, I really wanted to enjoy Hancock but it was never going to happen. I concede that I got three decent laughs out of it, which in the past has been enough to turn a film for me, but not this time. The eminently watchable Will Smith plays John Hancock, an alcoholic superhero destroying Los Angeles despite his best intentions. I can just hear the coked-up pitch:

OK, OK, OK! How would people like Superman, huh, if he was…if he was a bum??? Get it? No cape, no suit, just stinkin’ of booze, tryin’ to fight crime, but fuckin’ everybody’s shit up like a…like a…an invincible drunk driver! Huh??? ‘Cause he’s got no fortress of solitude, he’s got no Marlon Brando who loves him, he’s just alone in the world with…with his powers!!! Eh???

 

Director Peter Berg fucked this film right in its arse. How you take a cast like this, an interesting premise and $150 million and turn it into a turkey like Hancock is beyond me. Peter Berg, you’re a fucking goose! Other than some basic slapstick laughs the film is piss boring and as sappy as a week of Days Of Our Lives. It seems as though Berg has tried to make a fuckin’ drama out of what might have become quite an interesting and dark comedy. Gags like our hero shoving a crim’s head up another crim’s arse, how do you make that NOT funny? Berg did it, the lame cunt! How do you make Will Smith and Charlize Theron look insincere? How do you make Jason Bateman look lamer than he did in Teen Wolf Too!? At every turn the film got progressively fuckeder. Plot twists that were so heavily telegraphed that characters’ surprise at their revelation was completely unbelievable, character histories referenced in a way that made them looked like tacked-on afterthoughts that even the actors didn’t know about. Everyone knows going in that it’s a superhero movie so suspension of disbelief is hard to break, but the banal misdirection of this film succeeds at smashing it to buggery. Peter Berg, you suck! You’re a fuckin’ douche bag, get fucked!

 

 

If you haven’t seen Hancock, don’t bother. It’s cock - not hard cock, but floppy, stupid, useless cock! If you still want to see it, I say: wait till it comes on free-to-air TV then watch something else!

 

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Muti-tasking Or Being A Useless Twat?

Multi-tasking. What the fuck is the modern obsession with doing 50 million things at once? I don’t fucking get it! Yes, life is busy. Yes, the world is moving faster than it did before people had mobile phones, wi-fi internet or the wheel. But, seriously, are you saving time by doing a half-arsed job of a bunch of things? What the cunt are you doing?

 

 

It makes me sick. I’m a singular focus person. I like dedicating myself to a single thing and doing it properly before moving on to the next thing. I’m also a guy and doing more than one thing usually fucks me up. Women seem to be better at multi-tasking and good luck to them. I draw the line at walking while listening to music or watching telly while drinking beer, that’s the limit for me. Whatever! The thing that nauseates me, like a floating turd in my breakfast cereal, is the useless cunts who insist of multi-tasking at the expense of both tasks.

 

 

The attention-deficit FUCKHEADS who try to compose text messages while riding bicycles. These are truly useless people and I want to buy a big car just to run the fuckers over. No clue! No fucking clue where they’re going, what’s around them and I dread to even think about the spelling in their stupid messages. They cunt along at walking pace all over the road like they’re just screaming to the world: KILL ME NOW!!! Oh no, I better answer the message now or my pathetic social life will crumble. Ooh, no but I’d better not stop pedaling or time will stop and I’ll miss my vegan-sexual-philosophy tutorial. DIE!!!

 

 

DECIDE!!! Text OR ride! Not both! You’re not saving time. If you stop, type and send your message, then start riding again, you’ll be riding faster and you won’t give everyone around you the steaming shits by forcing the guilt of manslaughter on them, and the person who gets the message may even understand it. What the fuck is the point in fucking up both tasks? It fills me with boundless fury. They don’t deserve the oxygen they’re wasting on their atrophied brains. They should be legally designated outlets for public indignation and repressed rage. I want to snatch your stupid phone out of your hand and smash it on the road, and when you come back around to ask me in your neo-hippy-passive-aggressive way what my problem is, I want to swipe you off your bike with my cricket bat and smash your chinless body into a greasy paste in the bike lane!

 

 

Multi-tasking is bullshit, except when done by girls…sometimes, and only because they can make it work. Note the word can, they can make it work, and if they do - fine. Anyone who can’t should abstain from it and just learn to fucking well PRIORITISE!!!

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Things To NOT Do When You’re In a Hurry.

#1. Shave Your Balls.

 

I slept through my alarm this morning. Well, that’s not exactly true. I kept pushing snooze, getting another five minutes, pushing snooze getting another five minutes, pruning down the things I had to do before leaving the house with a semi-sleeping brain, pushing snooze, you get the idea. At some point I guess I must have pushed Off by mistake and just kept sleeping.

 

I awoke with a jolt. It was late. Not too late but I have a thing about being late – namely, I fucking hate it – so I was in a state of mild distress. I could still get to work on time but I was under pressure, my insufficiently oxygenated calculations on what had to be done and how much time I’d need were abysmally poor, I was looking down the barrel of no breakfast, possibly even no coffee. No coffee, as you’ll remember, means no shit and starting the day all bunged up – ah, it would be a cunt of a day!

 

I jumped into the shower and in retrospect could have cut down time by leaving certain personal grooming details for another day, but I didn’t. I decided to shave my ballbag. I first shaved the bag about six years ago. I tried it once to impress a girlfriend and just never went back. Yes, it did work, she was quite impressed, it was the rest of me that ruined things there in the end, but I digress. The freshly shaven bag is a wonderful thing. Gentlemen, if you’ve never tried it, I highly recommend* it. Unfortunately, the scrotum is not the easiest thing in the world to shave and today, with the pressure of lateness upon me, I was rushing. I nicked the bag.

 

Just a little nick. For a moment I wasn’t even sure if I’d cut or imagined it. Of course, that moment was very short-lived and followed by extreme panic as it began to bleed. It didn’t spurt or anything graphic like that, it just dripped with determined rapidity. Oh fuck! I’ve cut the bag! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I examined the wound, the warm water of the shower washing it clean. One tiny cut, less than a millimeter, not deep, just a layer of skin but right on a vein. The water was quite hot, the bleeding was quite consistent, the ballbag is nothing but thin skin covered with small veins, my heart was pumping, the shower looked like Psycho. The bag!!! Fuck it, I’ve cut the bag! And I’m late for work!

 

I turned the taps off and grabbed a towel and, carefully to avoid the balls, compressed the damaged piece of scrotum in the towel to stem the flow of blood. First aid training, you beauty! Compress the wound to stop the bleeding. I had to get it to stop quickly because I was going to be late for work so I stood in the bathroom like a hunchback, one hand compressing my slashed bag, the other doing a crap job of drying the rest of me with another towel. What a pathetic sight, I was so glad to live alone.

 

How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I leave it for another day? IDIOT!!! After about five minutes of compression I checked the bag. The bleeding started right back up exactly like before, a rapid dripping. Oh fuck! How to make it stop. I grabbed a bottle of liquid styptic out of the medicine cabinet. I use it on my face when I cut myself shaving, how is it I’ve never cut the bag before? I dabbed styptic on the bag. SWEET SHITTING FUCK MONSTER!!! Wow, I thought that shit stung my face. No result, still bleeding. I tried again. CUNTING ARSE PISS MOTHERFUCKER!!! Yep, that really does smart. Still bleeding. My bathroom was starting to look like a crime scene. Could I bleed to death from this? What a hideous way to die. Fuck, they’ll think it was some bizarre suicide. Humiliation even in death. I’ve GOT to get ready for work. Band aids. Yes! That will work. Applying band aids to a scrotum is no easy thing either. Who designed balls? Who fuckin’ did this? How fucking ridiculous…? Alright…calm down! The band aids wouldn’t stay on because the blood soaked straight through them. I was starting to worry that I might be losing a dangerous amount of blood. Also, how could I explain this? What would I tell The Wobblers? No no no, it was all too terrible to contemplate. I decided to bleed freely all over the bathroom floor while I rummaged through the contents of the medicine cabinet. Fabric Elastoplat. One large one and a packet of normal size fabric elastoplast. They’re better than the plastic band aids because they’ve got that hardcore adhesive and they’re fabric so they stretch. I opened the big one and about fifteen little ones, peeled all the backings off them and laid them sticky side up on the washing machine. Taking the big one in one hand, I wiped the scrote clean with the bloody towel and quickly stuck the big plaster over the wound. I pressed all the edges down - very careful to not press ball, just bag. Then before the blood could soak through, I reinforced it with the smaller plasters, building up a barrier against the bleeding, I would make it stop. Ha! Fuck you, circulatory system! I kept peeling and applying plasters until I was satisfied. I waited for a few minutes…it held. This would have to do.

 

Of course, my balls by this stage resembled a softball. As I got dressed I realised my cunning strategy may well attract a lot of attention. Not more attention than a bleeding crotch perhaps, but still it wasn’t a good look. What a choice: elephantitis balls or man-struation? Too late to worry now.  I left the house of horrors and caught the train. I kept glancing at myself fearing that the dressing wasn’t holding the blood flow. I was certain on a few occasions that I felt wetness in my pants. Terror! No, I was just Buster Gonad and His Unfeasibly Large Testicles.

 

The easter egg in my pants held. No-one commented about by abnormally huge balls, for which I was very thankful. I kept a very low profile at work, I kept all movement to a minimum. I worked and left. On removing the dressing when I got home I discovered the bleeding had stopped and I was fine. I cleaned the abbatoir that was my bathroom.

 

I will continue to shave my bag, despite today’s near-death experience. Not because I’m some sort of self-mutilator or adrenaline junkie, but because I like the feeling of a smooth scrote. But, I will only shave it when I have time to be leisurely about it. They’re the only balls I have and they deserve better than a hasty once-over with a fucking razor blade.

 

 

* What I don’t recommend is waxing. Tried it, don’t go there, it’s bad. Very, very bad.

 

 

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On Being A Stinky F*#ker!

 

I was on the 86 tram today, heading up Smith Street in Collingwood, when a guy got on. He was an unkempt, very Smith-St-looking guy with a big backpack and hair matted into one big dread. Yeah, dead giveaway - one matted dread, not even cool, cared-for dreads plural, but one manky slept-on nest - the mark of a lazy fucker with no sense of self or personal hygiene. I wouldn’t care,  I do hold a certain affection for the squalid sleaziness of Smith St and its population…except that he stank, I mean really stank. He got on the tram and and instantly a wall of  foetid, unwashed rankness seared my eyes and stuck its fingers down my gag reflex. I dry-retched and I could see that everyone around me also appeared to be suffering.

For fuck’s sake, why would you want to be a stinky fucker? Why, out of all the possible choices you could make in life, would you choose not washing yourself? Fuckin’ WHY??? And don’t even try to tell me it’s because he’s poor because I’ll shit in a postpack and mail it to you! I know poverty, I’ve been poor and I’ve travelled to countries where they have real poverty, people still manage to wash themselves. People living on less than a dollar a day still manage to regularly wash their clothes and their bodies and behave like people, so this cunt’s stench is nothing to do with poverty, this was a mother-fucking lifestyle choice! 

Again I will ask: WHY? What does the smelly person get out of being smelly? There must be some upside other than saving water and preserving the world’s soap reserves. What the feculent-rotting-carcass is wrong with bathing?  I mean, when I was 7 I didn’t like having showers but that was more due to their disruption of the day’s activities and their being the precursor to bed-time rather than from a desire to be a stinking shit-merchant. So what is it? Could it be a strategy of dealing with fellatiophobia (the fear of being sucked off)? If so, it’d probably work - 99%* of respondents interviewed said they’d be much less likely to go down on a guy with a cheesy cock. 

I’m all for diversity, I genuinely am. I love that I live in a pluralistic society where people can live more or less however they choose. I don’t look down upon those people who prefer not to conform to sterile consumerist norms. No, I celebrate the individual’s right to choose their own path even when their choices are very different to my own. But there are limits to my tolerance. If you want to smell like spew-flavoured armpits, vintage dick-cheese and a busted arse, go for your life, BUT FUCKING WALK THERE!!! Don’t get on a public tram and make paying customers dry-retch because of your disgusting stink-fetish. I don’t care what reason you’ve got, there’s no fucking justification for it, DON’T BE A STINKY FUCKER NEAR PEOPLE!!! GO STINK IN A FUCKING CAVE, YOU MISERABLE SHIT-SACK!!! It happens all the time, stinky bastards are everywhere, some of them even manage to make an occupation out of it: 

Aaw, maaate, could you spare $2, I’ve gotta…

No, I don’t! Not for you, you fuckin’ stinking shitbag! You’re a smelly mother-fucker and I wish you’d fucking die!!! Fuck off!!! 

Don’t even get me started on beggars. In developing countries, fine – all respect and compassion. In Australia – go fuck yourself! Take your mobile phone and call someone who cares, you junkie cunt! 

I know that sometimes everyone gets a bit sweaty - that’s fine, but fuck it, here’s some guidelines:

• WASH!!!
• Yourself and your clothes.
• With soap.
• Regularly!
• DON’T recycle your underwear, you cheesy shit-fuck!
• If you’re a naturally smelly person, carry deodorant.
• If you’re going near people, FUCKING USE IT!!! 

I swear my patience with willfully these stinky fuckers is wearing painfully thin. Any decent citizen should be legally permitted to remove a smelly person from public transport, shops, anywhere they become a malignant nuisance, and set them on fire. People complain about passive smoking but inhaling the acrid vapours of decaying flesh and stale body waste is hideous, it’s a fuckin’ crime against humanity. If you want to stink like garbage you should be incinerated like garbage! GET FUCKED!!! If you see a guy with a jerry can on trains and trams around Melbourne, that’ll be me and you better hope you don’t fucking stink!

 

                

*Source: Buck Frain’s Attitudes To Genital Cheese Survey 2008. The other 1% threw up and/or declined to give an intelligible answer.

 

You’re so vain, you probably think I’m trying to kill you.

 

People are far, far more stupid than I had realised. It’s days like this where I despair for the human race and just want the cockroaches to take over - I doubt they’d do a worse job. I know I’m not the most charitable chap when it comes to evaluating the average intelligence of my species, but I think even I may have been overly generous thus far.

 

I read this article today and I’ve been hearing similar bulletins all over the radio warning the mobile phone owners of Australia not to respond to a text message scam saying:

 

Someone paid me to kill you. If you want me to spare you, I give you 2 days to pay 5000 dollars. If you inform the police or anybody, you will die, I am monitoring you.

 

How fucking stupid are you? If you’re enough of a douche bag to fall for that, you deserve not only to lose your money but to be beaten with a sledgehammer, dragged behind a car, chewed by wild dogs and set on fire. WAKE THE FUCK UP!!! How many hitmen tell you they’re going to kill you? How many hitmen ruin their own professional image by letting clients buy them off? How many hitmen can be bought off by clients for a meager $5000? I mean, how much was the cunt hired for in the first place? A bag of weed and some 2-minute noodles? What the shit-streaked pants are you thinking?

 

So…have you crawled out from under the bed yet? Will you be able to sleep tonight? If you’re still scared just ask yourself this: Who the fuck are you that someone would want you dead and feel strongly enough about it to spend money getting it done? Be honest now. No-one. Not one single person gives that much of a fuck about your imbecilic arse, do they? In fact, if you died tomorrow in your apartment, it would be a couple of weeks before the neighbours complained about the stench - that’s the truth, isn’t it? Yeah! So just shut the shit-eating-fuck up and relax!

 

If you’ve had a text message like the one above and after reading all this you’re still worried, please contact me at buck.frain@gmail.com  Include your address and when you’re likely to be home and, when I have time, I’ll make a special trip over to kick the living cunt out of you for being a stupid sack of self-absorbed shit. With all my heart: GET FUCKED!!!