Archive for May, 2008

Why does the fish man smile at me like that?

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 31, 2008 by Buck Frain

Within the seafood industry there is a joke. A nasty, nasty joke.

 

I went the market on Wednesday and bought some fish. I enjoy cooking and fresh fish is a wonderful thing.  So I looked at the various things on offer and my eye was caught by some big butterfish steaks on special. I lived in South Australia for a while and butterfish is the standard fish-n-chip-shop fish. It’s a mild, white flesh fish, nothing fancy but very pleasant. These steaks looked fantastic, they were from a much bigger specimen than the fish-n-chip-shop fillets back in S.A., thickly cut, succulent-looking and at a price that was impossible to go past.

 

I asked for one of the butterfish steaks and the thin guy behind the counter pointed at them with eyebrows slightly raised to check he’d heard me right. Yeah, just one. I confirmed with an upheld index finger. He smiled a little quizzical half-smile, barely noticeable, was it a polite acknowledgement of a wise choice? Was it nothing to do with me? I paid for the fish and thought no more about it.

 

I pan-fried my butterfish steak with some chopped spring onion, fresh ginger, soy and lime juice. Served with steamed vegetables and wasabi mash, and accompanied by a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, it was pretty damn good if I do say so myself.

 

The next morning I got the joke.

 

I had to go to work early, there was a briefing for a new business job that was coming into field. Fuck, briefings are boring. Sit in a plastic chair and listen to some reasty twat who doesn’t know the first thing about communication, with a monotone, barely audible voice drone on and on about some bullshit survey. Sweet cunting Jesus, I could fucking kill myself! I stopped at a café on the way to buy some liquid fortitude.

 

While waiting for the coffee I felt the sharp pain of a rogue fart just bursting to get out. There was no-one else around me so I figured I could just gently let it out silently and no-one would be the wiser. I misjudged. Not by much but it was enough. It would have been literally a matter of milliseconds before I resecured my sphincter but the damage was done. No sound, but the deadly warm wetness of a shart. I’d shat, just a little but there was no mistake. In the middle of a coffee shop I had shat myself. Escape. I caught the eye of the girl making my coffee Excuse me, I just need to use the bathroom. I shuffled off to the bathroom trying desperately not to look conspicuous or to spread the damage too far, or more imortantly to let go of my tightly clenched sphincter which, I was certain, was holding back a great tsunami of shit.

Through the door, into the cubicle, lock, belt, trousers-undies-sit, release. Oh fucking hell! A terrifying splatterfest of semi-solids and jetting liquid erupted from me. The stench made me dry retch. My own stench made me dry retch. The tsunami subsided. I realised I was sitting on the toilet arms outstretched, bracing against the walls of the cubicle. I relaxed my arms and looked down at my underpants to inspect the damage. It was just a small streak of liquid at the arse crack. I checked and it hadn’t soaked through to the pants. Big relief. Leg by leg I extricated myself from the soiled undies replacing my pants. What to do with them.

 

I stood and turned to see the damage in the bowl. WHAT THE FUCK? To my unmitigated horror, the fairly regular, squishy looking turds floating in the bowl were in surrounded and coated by a layer of clear orange-brown oil. I swear it is true. There was a layer of oil over the water in the bowl. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. I’d shat an oil slick. I looked at the crotch of the undies. It was oil. I sniffed them. EW! Only once, dry retch again. They stank of shit (surprising!) and old fish. Fucking butterfish! That was the fucking cryptic smile. He fucking knew. THAT DIRTY MOTHERFUCKER KNEW AND HE SAID NOTHING!!! CUNT!!!

 

Butterfish should come with a warning – MAY CAUSE ANAL LEAKAGE! I never understood the term anal leakage before but this was it. The sphincter, that wonderful muscular device which can tell solid from liquid from gas so effectively. That magical sphincter is rendered completely useless by oil. And just for those of you laughing your arses off right now: anal leakage SUCKS!!! FUCK YOU, FISH GUY!

 

Keep it together. I had to get my coffee and go to work. Ah, the coffee. Fuck, work! My gut rumbled. Ooh. There was going to be more visits today, I would be on anal guard like a bastard all day. But now I knew the score, I wouldn’t get caught again. It’s not a fart, just remember it’s not a fart, maybe you’ll never be able to fart with pants on ever again. That’s OK, I can live with that, just please let me not shit myself at work.

 

I wiped and straightened myself out. I flushed. Oh God NO!!! The horror. Oil, being lighter than water, doesn’t want to flush away. After four flushes I gave up and left a few little pools of oil floating in the bowl. I opened the cubicle door, still alone, took my oil-shat undies to the sink and washed them rigorously with hand soap, wrung them out and stood at the hand drier drying them, silently praying no-one would randomly enter, or even worse, come looking for me. Fuck, how long had I been away?

 

The undies dried. No-one came. I was ready with a what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at expression if someone did come in. What, you’ve never seen a guy drying his underpants before? Back to the cubicle, pants down leg-by-leg undies back on. Two more flushes, just for luck, out, wash hands.

 

I returned to the café, paid for the coffee and left. It was cold, the coffee girl looked at me a bit funny, I realised I was sweating, she probably thought I’d gone in for a sly phone-wank, I was late for work – fuck you, wobblers! During the course of the day I had five more shits – all with, thankfully, decreasing amounts of oil.

 

I tell you this: everything in this post is true. Beware of butterfish! Be afraid of butterfish! VERY FUCKING AFRAID! Butterfish causes anal leakage. Unless you are buying it from a fish-n-chip shop in South Australia, in which case I suspect it’s just flake, DON’T FUCKING BUY IT!!! It’s a joke fish, we’re not meant to eat it, fishmongers stock and sell it purely for comedy value, the rotten fuckers! If you buy and eat it then your arse will leak oil and you’ll shit your pants.

 

If, on the other hand, you’re looking for something to serve to people you hate, this is the dish for you, it’ll fuck ’em!

How To Get 1 Million Hits On Your Blog!

Posted in Human Stupidity with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 28, 2008 by Buck Frain

The World Is Yours.

Getting one million hits on anything on the internet is fucking easy and if you can’t do it you’re fucking idiot and you should consider having yourself euthanased. Just ask me, I’ve never done it! On the upside I’m not asking you for any money and you’re already here so you might as well hear me out. 

The internet, just like the real world, is full mostly of complete cretins. Brainless fucksticks with about as much imagination as your average carrot. It’s at this point, I’d usually cut sick at the stupidity of humankind for another paragraph or so, but for what we’re doing today human stupidity is a good thing, and you want your million hits so I’ll try to stay on track. 

The way to get hits is to have text in your site that people search for using search engines. The more people search for specific phrases that appear in your site, the more hits you get. Now, you could subscribe to numerous sites or download all sorts of fancy applications that measure search engine traffic in order to find what’s hot right now and help you choose a niche that you can exploit for whatever it is that rubs your rhubarb. Rather than list any of those applications here, I’ll just say: Don’t fuckin’ waste your money! The internet is simple and people are shit. People are online for three main reasons and these never change:

  • Porn
  • Cash
  • Salvation

Dating is also pretty big, but pointless for us, and then way down the list there’s also people doing genuine research or looking for actual information. These people are pretty useless for our purposes because they’re smart and interested in too wide a variety of subject matters, also, we’re really here to get hits, yeah? Fuckin’ yeah! So let’s stick with the three. 

For porn sites you need text like: 

Free XXX, big tits, hardcore fucking, free teen cum sluts, amateur porn pics, lesbian college party, fat hairy bitches, massive cock gallery, tit-fuck, donkey-punch creampie, dirty rim-job, fisting the dentist, gobbing the teacher, anal probe alien, fuck-monkey latinas, asian ping pong pussy, pissing on cops.

Of course if you ad some pictures or videos, some people might come back especially if they’re porn pictures and videos. 

For Cash sites you need text like: 

Free home business, make cash from home, free start-up, make a fortune online, $100,000 per month guaranteed, best online business, retire in one year, lucrative investment opportunity, be your own boss, be a millionaire, earn millions, chance of a lifetime, fully-automated business, no work – huge rewards, have a shit on your boss.

Again the text is all you really need to get the hits but if you want to branch out into actually turning those hits into money, you’ll need to offer some sort of publication and charge for it. The idea isn’t to provide anyone with anything that earns them money, it’s about stringing them along with a sniff of earning potential, getting them to sign up for a zine that has all the answers for a nominal fee like $50 that you’ll refund if it doesn’t work in three months. The zine has to offer vague hints, links and pointers to things they have to buy and lots of encouragement because people who go for this shit are desperate and fragile and need lots of reassurance. This also stops them from giving up and asking for a refund for the first 3 months. You can send them emails containing new links to bullshit products every few days to keep tham thinking they’re getting business coaching. You don’t have to worry about whether it works or not, most people will realise they can’t be bothered trying your ideas so they’ll give up. Yay, free cash for you! Those who do try it may have some degree success which means you win again, and those who try it, fuck it up and want refunds – well, fuck them! 

The salvation sites need text like: 

Fuck this shit, who can be bothered? I mean, you get the idea, don’t you? Blah blah blah. Really, why even bother with the salvation sites, porn and cash are what most people want so stick to that. I just put salvation in because three options look better than two, so find your own fuckin’ words, you lazy cunt! I mean, maybe I’d give you salvation if I was getting something out of it but I’m not and I’m in a pretty bad mood anyway so you should just be happy I’ve been as generous as I have. 

So that’s it! That’s your lesson on how to get 1 million hits on your blog or whatever the fuck else you feel like putting up on the internet. Getting hits is all about bullshit, cheap tricks and usually involves annoying the piss out of everyone you know until they hate you. So in that spirit I’ll ask a favour. No, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, are you really that naïve? I’ll ask that you copy the address of this page and send it in an email to everyone you know, paste a link to it into your Facebook, Myspace or any other webpage you have access to, and tell them all this is the most important thing they’ll read this year and even though you don’t normally pass these sorts of things on, you felt compelled to share this gem with them. Why? Because I want a million hits too, I too am a big sold-out bitch who yearns for the adulation of complete strangers, so do the right thing and don’t let the Buck stop here, pass it on! 

Thanks!

 

Damn! You fuckers will read anything!

 

Have you GOT faith or do you just WISH you had?

Posted in Wankers In Denial with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 27, 2008 by Buck Frain

As an atheist, I find faith a very interesting concept. I like the idea of it in some ways, a tendency towards hope and positivity, a belief, sometimes against logic, that everything will be alright. I think it allows people to achieve wonderful things in the face of terrible adversity and promotes some of the best attributes of humanity.

The sad thing is that so few people today actually have any faith at all.  You don’t have to look too far to see the faithful showing off the flimsiness of their faith. Have a look at any of the blogs that are in any way anti-religious or even those that just satirise or poke fun at religion and you’ll see the faithful going out of their minds. They scream the most incisive vitriol at the blasphemers, they forsake, in text, every value they have sworn to uphold, simply because someone else either doesn’t value their faith or holds an opposing view. That, to me, indicates that maybe they don’t really have any faith whatsoever, they just want to have it. Fearful people alone in the universe, like children afraid of the dark. Remember kids, all anger is a product of fear – take it from me, I should know. Surely if you have solid faith in an omnipotent God, you’re not foolish enough to think that God needs your dumb arse sticking up for Him. Can’t an all-powerful being stick up for Himself? More importantly, how strong is your faith in this God, if at the first sign of ridicule or difference you toss all his commandments away and start behaving like a terrorist? My God’s bigger than your God!

From the ancient Greeks through to fundamentalists of all denominations today, the faithful seem hell bent on endowing their deities with very human frailties. I thought the whole point of religion was to believe in something greater than humanity, a superior intelligence, a supreme being, something that transcends our shortcomings here and now and leads towards a better future by encouraging us to surpass our baser natures. So how the millions-of-mindless-shitheads do you explain the violent actions of the faithful all around the world today? Most people just don’t think it through, in fact most people don’t think at all. The vast majority of the faithful use faith as an excuse to not use their brain. Woohoo, I’ve got Jesus, there’s no need to question anything ever again! Fuck you! Faith doesn’t absolve you of the need to think. If there is one thing we can be certain of looking at history, it’s that religion has repeatedly been used by evil men to control the stupid. But maybe there’s a few people who enjoy that. Maybe there are people who love having a religious loophole that allows them to hate and murder with impunity. If so, it doesn’t appear very Godly from the outside.

The photograph at the top of this post my inspiration today. It’s a photograph by Andres Serrano of a small plastic crucifix submerged in the artist’s urine and entitled Piss Christ. A copy of it was torn up in the U.S. Senate by an outraged politician and when it was displayed in Melbourne some young chump smashed its display and an angry mob tried to have the exhibition shut down. The brainless faithful missed the point and resorted to hatred and violence rather than trying to understand or appreciate a beautiful image. Makes me think if Jesus did bother to come back, it would probably be his own faithful who would kill him this time, not just hired Roman goons.

Mobile Porn Library – Wank on-the-go!

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 26, 2008 by Buck Frain

Let me say straight off the bat, pardon the imagery, that I don’t have a problem with masturbation. It’s fine – it’s natural, fun, therapeutic and usually doesn’t hurt anyone else. But seriously, the world is going to hell and it would seem we’re turning into a nation of dull-eyed, brainless, chronic masturbators – it’s just not healthy. Don’t believe me?

What the wank-obsessed fuck is going on with late night TV? Have-a-wank ads have been around for ages. Ten years ago in between bullshit late night infomercials like Kevin Trudeau’s Mega Memory you’d have phone sex line ads. That shit was bad: our crusty bitches are waiting for you to call 1900-I-wanna-pay-5-bucks-a-minunte-to-jerk-off-with-my-own-hand! It was sad and contemptible, lonely cashed-up motherfuckers who were so thick they couldn’t work out it’d be cheaper to go for a real rub-and-tug with someone else’s hand at their local massage parlour. Those stupid fuck-knuckles deserved to get taken for every last penny, but we could rest knowing that telephone hygiene was relatively safe due to the distance between phone and cock. Now it’s far worse: mobile phone porn ads – dial 1900-dirty-slappers-ooh-just-can’t-wait-gotta-blast-a-load-all-over-my-fuckin-phone.

What sort of sad shit-sack beats off to a phone. That’s fucked up! Are guys today so frantic the get a load away, and so devoid of imagination, that they need pornography on their telephones? In the information age with a whole internet full of more free porn than the world will ever need, people are still paying exorbitant prices for visual wank fodder? And what does this mean culturally, is everyone pissing off to the toilet for a sly phone-wank every five minutes? Think about it, there’s definitely a market for phone porn and don’t kid youself that it’s just a novelty, ah it’s just a bit of fun, don’t live in denial – where there’s porn, there’s wanking. We’re confronted by the harsh reality, on TV every night, that there must be a huge number of blokes hunched over, furiously wanking themselves off to their phones – otherwise the ads wouldn’t exist, would they? It’s fucking disgraceful! It’s a phone!

I now refuse to use other men’s mobiles. I can’t bring myself to do it anymore. Fuck it, why take the chance? Think about the people you know, think about it next time you put a friend’s mobile up to your mouth. Does it stick to the side of your face? Did he wipe it off with an alcohol wipe, or was it a refresher towel from KFC, or did the filthy compulsive-cock-pounding freak just give it a once-over with a bit of dunny roll? Are you speaking into a dirty sex toy? Can you smell jizz?

You’re fuckin’ BALD, bitch!

Posted in Wankers In Denial with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 23, 2008 by Buck Frain

For fuck’s sake, if you’re bald, DEAL WITH IT! There is nothing more pathetic than a man with fake hair. Except maybe a man with a comb-over, but that’s a really tight call. Hairpieces and comb-overs are stupid. Really, really stupid and rather than making people feel better about themselves they really just serve to fuel fear and insecurity because even if you’ve got the best wig or comb-job in the world and everyone does a really good job to pretend they don’t notice it’s fake, you’ve still got to live with the terror of what would happen if they ever did notice. 

You’ve constantly got to have the hair around a rug trimmed to blend in, there’s re-colouring as you age, and the panic attacks caused be high wind, vigorous exercise or water. Do you really think that hot girl’s gonna go out with you a second time after tearing your toupee off in the throes of passion? Shit, man, you’ll be lucky if she stays to finish the job. My bet is she’ll scream loud enough your neighbours will call the cops and then she’ll leg it naked down the street, you fucking freak! Of course she may just laugh her arse off, rug in hand, you with tape on your scalp and a hard-on – that mood’s killed.

Don’t kid yourself that transplant technology is gonna save you either, cue ball. Even if the grafts take, your real hair still falls out around them so eventually you look like a recovering cancer patient and you can’t ever go back to shaving your head or you’ll reveal the big-arse scar on the back of your skull where they chopped all the graft skin out.

Any way you try to thatch that roof, insecurity is what’s unattractive. Look at the fuckwit in this ad. Hey that’s some pretty lush hair, right? If you look closely I think you’ll see he’s unable to touch it, he goes close but, ooh nah, there’s no running his hands through those thick locks. There’s something in his voice too, you can hear it, it’s like a little inner cry, a teary voice going: Nah, man, I’ve got hair now. You can’t call me baldy anymore ’cause I’ve GOT hair. Yeah! It’s REAL, man! It’s fuckin’ REAL! …is!…SHUT UP!…bastards. He’s not enjoying the confidence, six-pack or not, he’s a scared little bitch. He’s more of a baldy now than he’d be if he had the balls to cut his hair short and admit it. YOU’RE FUCKIN’ BALD, BALDY!!! BALDY, BALDY, BALD, BALD!!!

You’re fuckin’ ORANGE, cockface!

Posted in Wankers In Denial with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 22, 2008 by Buck Frain

I’ve been seeing them everywhere today. I don’t know whether it’s the sudden cooler weather that makes them yearn for the illusion of summer, or whether I’ve just been oblivious of late, but they’re back – the orange people. Not the cult, I mean the fake tan fuck-wits.

 

They’re easier to spot than toupees, for fuck’s sake. It’s mostly women but occasionally you see an orange man, usually a metro-gym-junkie. Fake tan! What the dick-cheese-sandwich are you thinking? Are you colour blind? You are bright orange. Your fucking skin is orange. People aren’t naturally orange, of all the many beautiful colours people come in orange is not one. Orange screams fake. It howls at the top of its lungs to everyone with sight: Look at me, I’m a pasty white fuck-waste who’s ridiculously self-conscious about my skin colour and has absolutely no self-awareness whatsoever. I’m shit! Throw rocks at me! STAB ME!! I’M FUCKED!!!

 

I fucking hate it. It’s absurd, and they just act like they just got back from Bali and no-one realises that it’s not real, even when they’re wearing a sleeveless top and the orange has sweated off to reveal white armpits. Orange is a fruit. FUCKING HAVE A LOOK AT YOURSELF!!! It’s just fuckin’ stupid, it looks like orange dirt. Go home, scrub yourself clean, put on some decent boots, kick the living shit out of yourself and repeat 100 times Everyone knows I’m not really orange.

The Wobblers – A Tale Of Two Bosses.

Posted in Tales From Hell with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 21, 2008 by Buck Frain

It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times.

The Wobblers have been at me today. Ah, it makes me want to throw up. Revolting, obese, mouth-breathing bitches breaking my balls for no other reason than the fear that I might one day show them up for their ineptitude. As if I give a shit. 

The Wobblers is the collective term I apply to my two bosses. Fuck, one would be bad enough but I have two of the rotten things. I call them The Wobblers because that’s what they do best – wobble. If you tried to make people out of blancmange and hate you’d make my bosses. You’d also be a complete arsehole and I’d fuckin’ hunt you down and kill you. 

My immediate boss, L.F. Ant, is a morbidly obese balding woman in her early 30’s with Bell’s Palsy so her face looks like half of it has gone on strike and is trying to run away. Who the fuck would blame it? As a result she can’t talk properly so I’ve put up a $50 bounty to anyone who can get her to say I was born on a pirate ship in public – no-one’s attempted it yet. I’m not a superficial human being and I don’t ordinarily judge people for their looks but unfortunately L.F.’s personality is even more unpleasant than her grotesque appearance so I feel justified in vilifying her vile exterior. She is very stupid, almost illiterate, completely incompetent and a mean, angry bitch. She’s got these fuckin’…I don’t know, they’re like bed sores, on her elbows… from holding her enormous bulk off the desk. It’s fucking horrible. She sits in her office munching Cheese & Bacon Shapes, Rasberry Bullets and anything else that comes within arm’s reach of her. Fuck I wish she would just choke to death.

Unfortunately, today was not the day. Instead of choking to death quietly in her office, she decided to give me my first bollocking for the week. I suppose I should be thankful I missed it yesterday. I usually get bollocked for something on Monday, when this first started happening I actually thought I was doing something wrong but now I know it’s just that two days of not bollocking anyone and the disappointment of yet another sexless weekend of binge eating and self-hate needs an outlet. It would seem that kicking piss out of your employees alleviates the pain of an empty existence.

Today’s bollocking began as a passive-aggressive rebuke over what she felt was an inappropriate comment – I acknowledged to a respondent that a question was poorly written. I’ve learnt it’s better to nod and smile rather than engage in any debate with L.F., she doesn’t have the academic skills to hold a cogent argument so you just get in worse trouble disagreeing with her. So I agreed I should have been more professional – if it happened again I’d do exactly the same thing, of course. Unfortunately, it didn’t wash. She really wanted to have a go at someone, and even worse, I suspected she wanted me to put up some resistance. This was very dangerous – you know that Hippapotamus kill more people than lions? It all came out, a back-catalogue of all my transgressions over the past twelve months. You were late on thith day…Tho-and-tho had to thpeak with you on thith day…I ekthpect a lot more from you…you’re ekthperienthed enough to know better… I could fuckin’ see her glancing over to the spreadsheet of misdeeds she obviously had open on her computer. I stuck to my plan – nod and smile, agree and apologise. Don’t run, she’ll chase and kill you. In the end she could see she wasn’t getting anywhere, she started to tire, she was about to let me go when her boss walked in. 

Her boss, my second, is Pat Schwerk, a not-quite-so obese South African woman in her 60’s. Not as stupid as L.F., she is bureacratic and thoroughly misanthropic. If she was green and wrote poetry, she’d be one of Douglas Adams’ Vogons. She’s got a squint so one eye looks through you and the other skews off into another dimension where I suspect she receives her orders straight from a source of immense evil.

What’s going on here? Brilliant! The whole story comes out again and all the patient back-peddling was for nothing. Two bosses for the price of one. Tag-teamed by fatties – I’ve been Wobbled! Fuck it! What am I eight years old in the head master’s office? This drives me mental. I want to scream into their faces THE QUESTION IS BADLY WRITTEN, YOU ROTTEN FUCKING BANSHEES! IT’S ABOMINABLY WRITTEN BECAUSE THE SPEC WRITER IS A MORBIDLY OBESE FUCKTARD JUST LIKE YOU TWO LOUSY SHIT-SUCKING SLUTHEADS!!! WHY DON’T YOU JUST KILL YOURSELVES? WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO LIVE FOR, YOU EVIL CUNTS??? FUCKING DIE!!!

But I need my job, thus conscience does make cowards of us all, or I’m scared to be without it. I continue to apologise and placate and the situation gradually subsides. After a time I can back away slowly and return to work.

Back at my booth, after a three seconds of being thankful I got out alive, reality descends on me like a brown cloud – they’ve won, they might as well have my balls one each in jars on their desks. I’m back out at work minus some spirit, without my balls, having taken shit from hideous beasts and I’ve come away with a bunch of their self-loathing. It’s not mine, I don’t hate myself normally. They’ve achieved something incredible. Evil, but completely incredible – they’ve transferred some of their self-hate to me. This is intolerable, it’s really fuckin’ sick, they are using management as their therapy. They must be stopped. DEATH TO THE WOBBLERS!!!