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Ultra violence and chocolate eggs.

Posted in Human Stupidity with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 10, 2009 by Buck Frain


jesus_gets_hammered

Q: What’s this? 

A: A cunt of a way to spend the Easter long weekend!

 

Happy Easter, bitches! Eat chocolate, celebrate rabbits and the amount of fucking they do, buy lumber and nail someone nice to it! I appreciate a couple of days off work as much as the next bloke, but fuck me dead if I don’t wish there was something decent on TV.

Do Bunnings have an Easter sale? That’d be kinda funny.

Why haven’t dairies got involved with a series of commemorative Easter cheeses? Cheeses for Jesus! Sounds good to me, they’d go down a treat with all the cunting bread and red wine. Eat this cheese, for it is my cheese – OK, maybe not, but that whole speech was already pretty creepy stuff. The wine’s your blood, huh? How many of these have you had, J-bagger?

On that note why isn’t there an Exorcist-inspired ice block for Easter? Y’know, lemonade crucifix on a stick with a rasberry jelly Jesus. It’d be fucking great! Try new Lick Me Jesus! Fuck yeah, the kids would love it! 

Ah, shit! It’s only Good Friday, I’m already bored as a twat and there’s still three days to go. Fuck this shit, I’m going down the pub to get wankered!

 

Happy Shitting Birthday! Pape smear, anyone?

Posted in 10 People I'd Love To Smash with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 21, 2009 by Buck Frain

I didn’t get a cake but if I had, I imagine it would have looked like this:

shitcake

This week marked the 1st anniversary of the creation of Buck Frain’s Angry Place. Happy Birthday, Place! One whole year of public spleen-venting…and what a cunt of a year it’s been! I’ve gotta say I’m surprised that people have actually paid any notice to my ravings, it proves to me that the world is a far sicker place than even I had imagined. Nonetheless, I thank you all for your attention, your adoration, contempt and disdain and your comments, positive and negative alike. Ya fuckin’ sickos! Rest assured, there’s plenty of rage left in the tank, I’m just as fucked off as I was this time last year but then not a lot has improved in the world so what the shit does anyone expect?

 

This year everything was starting to look OK for everyone who earned less than $80,000 last year with the government announcing a stimulus package to support working Australians that would see us all get a rebate of $900. That’s $900 cash. Each. From the government…for free! That’s brilliant! It’s excellent! At a time when we’re all pretty fucked, the government actually gives something back to the people who fuckin’ need it! Woohoo!!!

 

But then, a slimy-toe-rag lawyer, university lecturer and former National Party toady named Bryan Pape came along and has challenged this payout in The High Court. BASTARD! He says it’s unconstitutional…and The High Court is hearing him on 30th March! THE ROTTEN, MISANTHROPIC, BALL-GRATING, EAR-FUCK!!!

 

He’s wealthy, he’s a miserable old cock-sucker and he wants all that money – your and my fucking money – to go back to the shitting government! It was ours to start with anyway, it was our cunting tax money! If the government wants to give some of it back, why the steaming-shit-sandwich should that be deemed unconstitutional??? ARSE!!!

 

Well fuck that, I’m not putting up with it! If The High Court knows what’s good for it it’ll boot Bryan Pape out on his wrinkly old arse and tell him to go and get fucked by bikers! I mean, what could be more un-Australian that stealing $900 each off 8.7 million members of the working population. He’d better hope his case fails because if it succeeds  there won’t be a pub in Australia where the cunt can safely get a beer! So, in the interest of public vengeance, on the chance that this ridiculous, mean-spirited old wanker actually succeeds in robbing honest Australians of a bit of relief, I offer this:

 

KNOW YOUR ENEMY!

This is him. And his contact details. This cunt is Bryan Pape, the old bastard hell-bent on robbing you of your $900. Feel free to drop him a line and tell him what you think of his plan! Hell, find out where he lives! Have a shit on his mum!

bryan_pape

 Once again, I suppose for the benefit of those without a sense of humour or who are in some other respect gorm deficient,  I should clearly state: This is not really a call to action. I do not wish any actual harm to come to Bryan Pape no matter how much of a twat I think he is. For cunt’s shitting sake, this whole site is just intended as a bit of a laugh, chill the fuck out.  If I asked you to jump off a bridge, would you do that too? Actually, that’s not a bad idea: Jump off a fucking bridge! I can recommend the West Gate and the Bolte if you’re in Melbourne. Please, for fuck’s sake, don’t waste yourself in front of a train – the fucking things get delayed or cancelled enough without useless cunts clogging up the wheels. Remember, some of us do have something to live for!

On Filming The Ginger Minge Of Hate.

Posted in Shit That Sucks & Blows with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 20, 2009 by Buck Frain

 

Every so often an idea comes along that is so comprehensively stupid one has to consider moving to a country where it’s easier to buy firearms. I was reading this article about idea-starved, fuckstick filmmakers Leanne Tonkes and Steve Kearney who have apparently managed to weasel over $110,000 of government funding to develop a biopic on the life of Pauline Hanson.

 

What the fuck???

 

For those of you who don’t live in Australia or remember, Pauline Hanson is a national joke that people stopped laughing at the better part of a decade ago. In the mid 90s she rose to notoriety for being an ignorant, bitter old racist fish and chip shop owner who decided to stop selling heart disease to the bogan masses of Ipswich in favour of peddling xenophobia and right-wing reactionary hate as a politician. And didn’t the rednecks love her? Half of Queensland wanted her cannonised and the other half just wanted to fuck her – sick bastards! Either way it was good business at the polls and conservative politicians all over the country got very nervous. But she was complete bollocks and after a few years everyone got sick of her crap and she disappeared in disgrace with a fraud conviction and a stint in jail. Nowadays, she’s a minor celebrity and was most recently seen on Dancing With The Stars, methinks probably because most stars thought it was a fucked show and producers needed to make up the numbers somehow.

pauline2 

Who the dead-cat-up-the-arse thought making a film out of this was a good idea? Who the have-a-shit-right-on-me-Jesus gives money to fuckwits pitching bullshit like this? Film Victoria, that’s who. That’s right, the state government funding body set-up to squander public money on film projects with absolutely no commercial or artistic merit and undermine an already crippled film industry. But fuck, what do I know? Maybe it’s a great idea. I mean they made successful films about Nixon, JFK and Ghandi so why not? But, oh yeah, they did stuff. They had an impact on the world they lived in. They weren’t DEADBEAT, BIGOTTED, BLOODNUT BITCHES, WERE THEY??? NO, THEY CUNTING WELL WEREN’T!!! I MIGHT AS WELL MAKE A FUCKING FILM ABOUT MY BOGAN FUCKING NEIGHBOUR – HE’S A REAL CUNT AS WELL!!!

 

It’s OK, I’m calm. So. Things the panel at Film Victoria should have discussed or at least thought about that may have helped them realise they were feeding a turkey.

 

  • What is the fucking genre? It doesn’t have enough pathos to be drama, it’s too lame to be comedy, it sure ain’t a western, there are no thrills, no sci-fi, maybe a bit of horror if you’re lucky, let’s hope to Christ it’s not porn – ew! Who the shit wants to see some poor prick banging away at the ginger minge of hate? No, it’s a biopic – the least cinematically interesting type of film you can make, so, artistically you’re fucked from the outset.
  • The biopic can only be commercially successful if there are people who are interested in the central character’s life and that can afford cinema tickets, so commercially you’re fucked as well.
  • Pauline Hanson is a mean-spirited offensive cunt and a purveyor of ignorance who has never had anything to say and has failed at pretty much everything she’s ever attempted. Why would anyone care to pay money to watch a film about her?
  • Who is the target audience? Foreign audiences aren’t going to pay to watch this shit and Australian audiences generally despise Australian films unless they’ve won significant critical acclaim or better: foreign approval first…and even then they’ll probably wait for it to come out on DVD then borrow it off their movie-buff mate and use it as a coaster. The only people who will pay to watch this dross are the middle-aged rednecks with a medically enhanced stiffy for Pauline Hanson and you’ll be fucked if you think there are enough of those old cunts to put the film into the black.

 

I think Film Victoria have been sucked in by the producers’ claims to have been in touch with superstar Cate Blanchett about the role. Let’s face it, people will pay good money to watch anything with a star of Blanchett’s magnitude in it. But let’s look carefully at what they say:

 

“She’s very busy,” Kearney admits. “It really depends if we deliver a script she likes.”

 

Now, I don’t know Cate Blanchett, but think about this just a little bit. Apart from being one of the greatest actors on the world Cate Blanchett is polite. She’s not me, if you came to me with an idea like this I’d tell you to go fuck your mother and threaten to kill your pets if you ever darkened my doorstep again. She’s very busy. It really depends if we deliver a script she likes. Which if she’s seen it she obviously doesn’t yet and if she hasn’t it just means you turd-polishing fucks will have to make something really fucking amazing. Maybe NOT a crappy biopic about a non-entity. Get the hint, fuckheads, she hates the idea! Maybe if you decided to make a film about something a bit less SHIT you might have some luck.

 

Hmm…maybe, but the poor cunts wouldn’t get any funding from Film Victoria then, would they?

Hiatus, not dead!

Posted in Tales From Hell with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 31, 2009 by Buck Frain

Balls and Arse!!! Fuck you, Oliver Coppin, I’m not dead – I’m just a lazy bastard!

I apologise, dear readers, for deserting you for so long. I had a rather nasty bout of contentment there for a while which very nearly proved fatal. However, thanks largely to the grace of ridiculous, archaic fictions and the inescapable facts that: (a) the world is fucked and: (b) the majority of people are either stupid, complete cunts or both, I pulled through and return to you more or less intact.

I must thank planetross, sweetchief and Corinna for your concern, enquiring as to my well-being. My sincere thanks. It took you long enough, you fuckers!!! I could have been trapped under my fridge starving to death in the most ironic way possible and no-one would have been any the wiser. Nobody would have given a flaming shit sandwich! I could have been one of those sad fucks who dies and no bastard notices until the stench of decomposing lonely wanker interferes with their TV reception. But, thankfully, I didn’t. I’m still here, large as life as twice as shitty.

I’ve got heaps of time on my hands now I’m back at work in market research hell being wobbled by imbecilic, malevolent monstrosities and it’s been over 40˚C for the last 3 days so it feels like real hell. I should soon be able to vent to you about all of the many things that have given me the absolute cunt during my hiatus from divine fury.

I realise this is a bit of a nothing post. Again, sorry. To compensate, here’s a little bit about me:

buck_history 

Can’t even be bothered typing it out again…lazy fucker!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #11

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 23, 2008 by Buck Frain

pennywise

#11. Other People’s Psychos

 

So, you’re a pretty good judge of character, huh? You’ve been around the share-house world long enough to know a few probing questions to ask of potentials, you’ve read books on body language and psychology and you know how to pick house-mates. Good work. Congratulations! You may well be great at telling what sort of people you want living in your house but how the fuck can you tell what sort of people they let into their lives? Ah, you didn’t think about that did you?

 

With every house-mate who’s not a complete nut-job-loner themselves, comes a horde of acquaintances, friends and relatives, some of whom may or may not be completely unhinged. And the best thing is that you’ll never know until you experience them first hand.

 

It’s 11:30pm I answer the door to a mournful, unsunned, waif.

 

Is Stephen in?

 

Stephen. Maybe I should have known. He wasn’t much of a ladies man but I didn’t think he was this depressed.

 

No, he’s…

 

I’ll just wait for him!

 

Stephen’s bedroom door slammed shut behind her. I was still standing at the door amazed at the nimble stealth that had propelled her under my arm and up the hallway. This definitely wasn’t a good sign. Welcome friends don’t scam their way in like that. No, this was bad. This was really, really bad. I’d let a complete stranger, a very sketchy-looking complete stranger into my housemate’s bedroom. Bad. Bad. Bad.

 

I shut the front door in case she was just the first of a legion of emo-zombies ravenous for the taste of non-suicidal brains. She’d only been in my house for seconds and already my will to live was ebbing away. I phoned Stephen and described his visitor.

 

You cunt, why did you let her in?

 

I fucking didn’t! She just dodged past me. Who the fuck does that?

 

Well, tell her to get out.

 

Fuck you, cunt, you get her to go, she’s your fucking girlfriend!

 

SHE’S NOT MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND! WHAT’S SHE FUCKING DOING? FUCK!!!

 

He hung up. The girl had locked herself in his room and wouldn’t answer me when I tried to speak to her. This was becoming a cuntfully unpleasant scenario. Stephen rang back and swore at me and told me he wasn’t coming home for a couple of days in the hope she’d just leave. I told him he was piss-weak and that her being in our house at all was unacceptable, let alone for a few days, that she had locked herself in his room, wasn’t coming out and wasn’t talking, and that if he didn’t get his stupid arse home and get rid of her I would call the police. I added that if they got her out and he wasn’t back it was my firm intent to have a shit in his bed.

 

The police indeed came, they had to break the bedroom door to get in. The silly bitch had taken a bunch of pills and was unconscious in a big pile of vomit on his bed. The vomit made me feel a bit better about the situation. The ambulance came and they took her off to hospital and, yes, she was fine, and yes it may be sad and I don’t mean to treat suicide lightly but that wasn’t what this was. She wasn’t trying to kill herself, it turns out she just does this shit! This was her fucking schtick! Her equivalent to a shitting chat-up line, if you will! When she likes someone she has a bit of a failed-suicide at their house to illicit sympathy and create emotional ties based on a shared crisis and the lay foundations for a chronically unhealthy relationship. Personally I think she should fucking top herself, everyone would be better off, she’d be happier and, really, it’s not like the planet’s short of people, is it?

 

That’s just one story, though, there are fucking psychos everywhere. If you’re not already, you should be terrified…of everyone…all the time – people are fucked! A former house-mate of mine had a friend who seemed fine, just like a normal bloke…except…he liked to shit in weird places. You’d get up after having had a party the night before and you’d find a massive human turd in the driveway…or on the balcony…OR IN THE FUCKING FRIDGE!!! We thought someone had a serious grudge against one of us but then it started happening to people we knew at their parties as well. There was a phantom shitter at large. It took years of freak-outs and an eventual triangulation between circles of friends to work out that it was Cam and he just likes to pinch one off at parties– like it was some kind of satanic house-warming gift. Hey, he wasn’t my fucking friend!

 

There was the six months after Dion moved out when we realised that he’d been dealing speed the whole time because his crazy, junkie, scum-bag clients kept coming ‘round in the middle of the night to score.

 

Then there was Trish, she was a kinda cool rock-chick but her hardcore-militant-feminist friends made Romper Stomper look like Sesame Street and made me put a massive cunting lock on my bedroom door for fear of being emasculated in my sleep.

romper_stomper 

So that’s it – 11 shit things that make share-house living suck! My hand is a lot better, I still live on my own, I will continue to do so and, Peter, you’re still a pathetic ballbag! People, don’t be fooled – Bill Hicks was right about human beings – We’re a virus with shoes! People are completely fucked and if you’ve any sense at all you won’t live with any of them, EVER!!!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #9

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 4, 2008 by Buck Frain

appetitelarge 

#9. Homebrew, Hydroponics & An Appetite For Self-Destruction.

Welcome to the jungle, we got fun and games…  

 

You’re young. You’re poor. You’re forced into sharing squalid surrounds with strangers. But you’re alive and parent-free and filled with a burning need to fuck and recreationally self-medicate as much of the time as possible, and why the balls not? The world is going to hell and holds little to no meaning, and the possibility of finding a job that you don’t want to top yourself for doing for the rest of you life is miniscule. Your best bet is to have some laughs and destroy as many brain cells as you can in the hope that you’ll stop caring and render yourself able to become a useful member of society. 

Good news: For over 15,000 years people with sod all money or education have been successfully brewing their own beer and getting right off their chops. It’s way cheaper than buying beer and provides you with a feeling of accomplishment whilst freeing up more of your precious cash for hardcore pharmaceuticals.

 

Good news 2: It’s fuckin’ legal!

 

You don’t have to be living with economics students to know brewing your own beer makes good financial sense, shit knows I wasn’t. Our entire house was, for the first time, unified in the mission of brewing and we became a little monk-like for a couple of weeks – checking, obsessing, focusing all our energies on the brew. We bottled and started another brew going. We bottled that and started another. Our cellar grew week by week and we waited for the brews to mature.

 

This enterprise inspired diversification in our endeavours and we constructed a small hydro setup in the ample broom closet and started growing two plants. We were set to become completely self-sufficient in basic intoxicants and we were very excited. The plants grew rapidly aided by a small UV light and numerous very questionable chemicals.

 

Finally, we harvested half a pound of buds once we’d run out of room in our makeshift cellar for bottles. We dried the weed and then chilled down a couple of dozen beers. To try. We tried. Ooh! Success. The beer was a pale lager style beer modeled after Mexican beers like Corona. Except it was about 6.5% alcohol so along with its crisp, refreshing taste and easy drinking body, it had a kick like a mule. The pot stopped time and rendered speech impossible.

weed_pot 

Five months later we were still wasted. We were producing nearly four cartons of beer a week and had to put in a serious effort just to make sure we were drinking that much so as to keep the cellar from increasing. Also, having large quantites of free pot lying about meant that we were smoking bongs incessantly. Someone in the house always had a doobie going or so it seemed and no matter where you’d come from or where you were going someone in the house would offer you a hit. We had endless parties, we invited our friends for barbecues and told them just to bring meat. We were kings. Mad, mad, debauched maniacal kings. Intervention and/or rehab was inevitable.

 

So where’s the cunting problem, Buck, you fuckin’ ingrate? I hear you ask, and well you may.

 

My housemates and I were sitting in the lounge room one evening. We were suitably toasted and idly entertaining the possibility of roping in our chemist mate in to help us make some LSD, a move that might well usher in a golden age in our Kingdom of Lad. We all jumped at the sound of the front door being smashed open. It didn’t come off its hinges but the deadlock tore through the frame and the inner handle punched a hole through the gyprock. I turned to face the sound and saw a flash of dirty denim and ginger goatee before the end of his baseball bat sank into my solar plexus and I crashed to the floor with the fear that I’d never be able to breathe in again. A heavy boot stomped between my shoulder blades forcing my cheek into the roughly finished floorboards. The double barrels of a sawn-off shotgun quickly filled my field of vision. I could hear the distant pleading of my house-mates amongst gruff threats and the sounds of the house being torn apart. My eyes were full of tears and my diaphragm was spasming air in and out of my body in such a way that I felt like a fish drowning in air on the deck of a boat.

…you’re in the jungle, baby! You’re gonna die!!! 

 

I couldn’t get my head around the terrifying reality that I was about to die in a gang related drug den massacre. My mum really didn’t deserve this. The voices were increasingly impatient in their demands and my body refused to let me answer. I pointed desperately to the esky in the middle of the lounge room floor. Calloused fingers flung the lid off the esky and pulled out a garbage bag full of weed. Congratulatory cheers followed. The shotgun withdrew. Another neanderthal returned to the room having found our meager broom-closet greenhouse with the verdict: Nah, it’s bullshit, they’re just cunts! Laughter. Ah well, thanks cunts. Oh, and don’t remember us or we’ll come back and kill yas! More laughter. Exit the bogan horde in a roar of Harley Davidson belligerence.

 

It seemed that despite our relatively small social circle, our friends had regaled their friends with tales of our enterprises and the resultant parties. These tales had been passed on, embellished and degrees of separation had closed until a group of hairy, stinky fucking outlaw bikies had decided to shut down our non-profit crime empire. It also seemed that I’d pissed my pants. Fuck you, near death experiences!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-Living Suck – #6

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 8, 2008 by Buck Frain

#6. Burning The Midnight Toast.

 

This particular share-house phenomenon took its name from a quite inoffensive event. After a suitably boozy night when several members of the house had returned late from their respective nights out, we arose to find two ice-cold pieces of blackened toast sticking out of the top of the toaster. Beside the toaster sat the butter and there was an unused butter knife on the counter over an open cutlery drawer. The evidence all pointed to someone being so heavily shit-pantsed that they’d decided to make toast but either forgot the cause part-way through, or weren’t up to completing the task and just went off to bed. As each member of the house surfaced, they were asked: 

Hey, who was burning the midnight toast last night?

 

It was loveably roguish behaviour and burning the midnight toast made its way into the household’s vernacular as a euphemism for any strange domestic rearrangements that may have taken place overnight, possibly under the influence of intoxicants.

 

Unfortunately, the term began to lose its lustre as it became used as an excuse for all sorts of unpleasant indiscretions. The following are all 100% genuine questions we had to, and did, ask house-mates over the course of several months:

 

Excuse me, do you know who…

 

     …left an uncooked cake in the oven?

 

     …owns the dildo on the couch?

 

     …kicked over the stereo?

 

     …ordered a prostitute?

 

     …screamed abuse at the neighbours last night?

 

     …left a used condom on the kitchen floor?

 

     …tried to poke vomit down the plug-hole in the bathtub?

 

     …had a piss in the fridge?

 

It’s bad, bad, bad, wrong, wrong, WRONG!!! Everyone has their moments and most people burn the midnight toast at some point but there are limits, people, FUCKING LIMITS!!! Get help, get counselling, go to rehab, leave me the stomped-ballbag alone because I don’t want to fucking well live with you filthy fucking animals ANY-CUNTING-MORE!!!