Archive for Fuckheads

Fuck Christmas

Posted in Rage Against The Machine with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 19, 2014 by Buck Frain

lp

Christmas 2014 is shaping up to be the most miserable in living memory for Australia. An increasing number of Australians are taking to the streets in T-shirts declaring that they will not be celebrating Christmas at all this year as they’re saving all their party stuff until Prime Minister Tony Abbott dies.

Hatred for the PM has reached fever pitch in many parts of the country, and without a productive outlet for the rage, people are increasingly turning on the institution of Christmas as a focus for their anger. Frank Jelbart, 87, of Coonamble NSW said: “What kind of country are they running here anyway, where a fine young lad like Philip Hughes is struck down playing cricket for God’s sake and a snake like Abbott destroys the country and walks around breathing the air that mates of mine died for. Christmas be fucked this year, I’m just going to take out the 12 gauge and shoot holes in some road signs.”

Vicky Pettigrew, 44, of Happy Valley SA said: “Tony Abbott has ruined Christmas in our house this year. We get a tree each year but neither my husband, Darren, or I can even look at a Christmas tree now without imagining it on fire and stabbed right down that creepy lizard[Abbott]’s Jap-eye.” Mrs. Pettigrew, well-intentioned but a bit of a casual racist, told how the family had tried to persevere with the Christmas spirit until the couple’s thirteen year old son had replaced the traditional fairy atop the tree with a paper cut-out of the Prime Minister. “I think Ethan he thought it was funny or something but when Darren saw it he went berserk. He just dragged the whole tree out into the yard, decorations and all, doused it with two-stroke fuel and set it ablaze. He said no-one in our house would be having any fun until he [Abbott] dies.”

Similar scenes are playing out all over the country. In Mulgrave Vic, Trevor Farnsworth, 53, said the only thing he would be doing this Christmas was taking a hammer and knocking the handles off all of his 82 sporting trophies attained over 35 years of competing in a range of sports. “It’s been my life”, he wept, “but now they all just remind me of that dirty, big-eared cunt. Why can’t someone just fuckin’ kill him?”

You would be mistaken to think that the discontent stops at our sovereign borders though, interviewed at his well-hidden North Pole factory this week, the usually-jolly Santa Claus let fly about the Australian PM when asked about the down-turn in festive participation this season. “Tony Abbott is cancer in Speedos, he can get fucked! I’m not even going to Australia this year. I’m sorry kids but you can just fuck right off as long as that prick’s breathing. I’m serious! Cunt [Abbott] wants to pretend global warming doesn’t exist? I live in the fucking North Pole, bitches! Do you know how much I’ve had to spend on foundation re-flotation and sea-floor mooring just so the factory doesn’t sink into the fucking Arctic Ocean? It’s like Venice-On-Ice up here – it’s fucking bullshit – and that filthy weasel shit-fuck [Abbott] spends most of his time gobbing off Big Mining like coal’s a good fucking idea. No surprise that Tony Abbott’s death is Australia’s second most wished-for Christmas item this year, but I’ll tell you now: if you want him dead you’re going to have to do it your lazy fucking selves. I wouldn’t let Rudolph piss on that beef-jerky-looking bastard if he was on fire.

santa-mad

With the big man in red seeing red, our intrepid reporter wasn’t game to ask what the number one most wished for Christmas item was from Australia, although my money’s on having a truck-load of pineapples smashed up Scott Morrison’s arse with a sledgehammer. Whatever it is, there’s no doubt that we’ve lost our way with Christmas. Sure as cunts I can’t buggered with it! Like the kids are saying: Fuck Christmas – I’m saving all my party stuff ‘til Tony Abbott dies.

All-in-one Kitchen Revolution!

Posted in Human Stupidity with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 4, 2010 by Buck Frain

Amazing breakthrough technology. 

Imagine a device so flexible and multi-purposed that it allowed you to throw away virtually all of your cumbersome kitchen appliances in one go.

It’s a slow-cooker, it’s a rice cooker, a bread maker, pie maker, fryer, boiler, roaster, steamer, griller and more. Entrees, mains, desserts, it can do them all. It make a thanksgiving dinner for the whole family, it can toast bread, it can even make you a cup of tea or coffee!!!

Anything you need to cook that requires heat can be prepared to gourmet chefs’ standards using this one device. 

How much would you pay for such an appliance? 

How about NOTHING AT ALL? 

Too good to be true? 

Not so! 

In Australia every house either rented or sold has one of these devices ALREADY!!! 

Yes, you miserable shit-sucking fuckholes, IT’S YOUR FUCKING OVEN!!! 

LEARN TO FUCKING USE IT AND STOP TWATTING ON ABOUT DOUCHEBAG, STUPID, PIECE-OF-SHIT APPLIANCES YOU’VE BEEN CONNED INTO BUYING BECAUSE YOU’RE A CUNTING USELESS PIECE OF MINDLESS EXCREMENT!!! 

LEARN TO COOK OR KILL YOURSELF AND SHUT THE  FUCK UP BECAUSE I’M FUCKING TIRED OF IT!!!

In Contempt Of Court.

Posted in Shit That Sucks & Blows with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 5, 2010 by Buck Frain

You fucking bet I hold the Federal Court ruling yesterday in contempt. Justice Jacobson has proved himself to be either a congenital moron or a corrupt motherfucker when he handed down a ruling that the Men At Work song Down Under plagarised the late Marion Sinclair’s children’s song Kookaburra Sits In The Old Gum Tree.

I scoffed at this case when I first heard about it because it was so ridiculous. The songs are nothing alike and the flute line in Down Under that is the cause of this law suit is in no way a substantial enough portion of the song to warrant anyone giving two shits about it. The fact is you’d have to have been living in another galaxy not to have heard this song in the early 1980s and nobody complained about it then, not even Kookaburra’s then-alive writer, Marion Sinclair. 

However, when smarmy cockface Norm Lurie of Larrikin Music Publishing got his filthy mitts on the rights to the old kids tune’, he saw a dazzling opportunity to defraud legends and genuine Australian song writers Colin Hay and Ron Strykert, and their label EMI,  of hard-earned income from their own creation. 

Painting himself as the underdog against EMI, the truly cuntful little man Lurie made out he was just trying to set the balance right for poor-dearly-departed Mrs Sinclair. What a lying old fuckbag! His case was nothing more than a cynical attempt to legally steal from Australian artists by a multi-national. 

I’m so angry I could just shit my own pants! Fuck you Justice Jacobson! Fuck you Larrikin Music Publishing! Most of all: Fuck you, Norm Lurie! I hope you get arse cancer and die! 

Down Under is an iconic Aussie song and while there are many things about this country I don’t like, some things are sacred. Stealing a seminal work of pop culture from the artists who created it is a shitting crime and Norm Lurie and his cronies should be doused in petrol and burned alive. I admire the hell out of Colin Hay for being able to keep his cool over this and I hope to fuck they can appeal this decision and get some proper justice, because when the justice system fails as badly as it has in this situation all I can do is pray that there are armed vigilantes like Paul Kersey out there to set the record straight!

 

Anyone wishing to communicate their displeasure with Mr Lurie in person can use these:

Norm Lurie – Dirty Cunting Shitstick Opportunist.
Email: norml@musicsales.com.au
Tel: +61 2 8252 6200

Welcome To The Death Of Freedom.

Posted in Rage Against The Machine with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 7, 2009 by Buck Frain

Really it’s just a matter of time before the death squads start rounding us up and our relatives never hear from us again.

govt-censorship

We’re sitting fat in our obese western consumocracy, pudgy fingers flicking between infomercials, relieved that we’re so much luckier than all those poor, starving, war-ravaged Africans and so much freer than the oh-so-shat-upon Chinese. What a fucking joke! We have no freedom, we gave that shit away, and we have no culture except buying shit we don’t need. Our own democratically elected government is placing a filter on our internet content that is rivaled only by China’s.  WHAT THE CUNT? I’m all for protecting people but this shit just keeps getting worse. What started out as a  kiddie porn filter is being expanded to block sites that sell or host games that do not meet Australia’s game ratings standards. Let’s ignore the fact that the filter is at best a stupid idea and that it would be a better idea to hunt down and prosecute pedos instead of censoring the net. They’re fucking computer games, I’m an adult, I think I can fucking handle it!

I don’t necessarily give a fuck about the games, what I care about is the removal from adults of the choice of whether they do something that does no harm whatsoever to anyone else.  Removal of choice. Removal of choice is removal of freedom and any removal of freedom de-humanises us. But it’s just a web filter. Bullshit! It’s censorship at its most ridiculous*. Censorship unheard of in any other civilised country in the world. But if that doesn’t matter to you then, yeah OK, today it’s a web filter. But what tomorrow? Revoking our right to freedom of assembly? Let’s fucking face it, we’re already well on the fucking way there. 

May 31st Melbournians may remember there was a peaceful gathering outside Flinders Street Station in protest against the recent violent attacks against Indian students that authorities have been trying to deny are racially motivated. This was a non-violent demonstration against violence …and the police’s reaction? Bash ‘em! Concerned that the demonstration might interest or embarrass commuters entering or leaving Flinders Street Station later that morning the police beat and kicked their way through masses of innocent citizens who were not breaking any law whatsoever. They chased the demonstrators through Flinders Street Station and beat anyone of Indian appearance that they could lay hands or a baton on. I had white friends in that demonstration and they were stunned that once away from the immediate site of the demonstration the police no longer targeted them, the police were racially profiling victims, passing by white people who had been involved in the demonstration and beating the nob out of anyone who looked vaguely Indian. I think it is a telling comment on our society that a peaceful protest against racially motivated violence and the government’s  indifference to it is met with government issued, racially targeted violence.

The reporting of this event in the Australian media was also very telling. Disregarding any notion of police brutality let alone racism, many reports told of the peaceful protest being hijacked by non-Indian trouble-makers. The people I’ve spoken to both Indian and non-Indian tell me that this is simply not true. They tell me that the ethnically diverse make-up of the demonstration was a very harmonious coming together of Australians in solidarity against disgusting acts of cowardice. They tell me that the only antagonism or “trouble-making” was from the police, many of whom were allegedly smiling as they kicked into seated members of the assembled crowd. Ah, there’s nothing as good as getting paid to smash people, is there?

So what is the message? Don’t play games unless they’re approved by the state, and don’t protest against injustice unless you want to get fuck bashed out of you. What sort of country is it that has rules like this? Is this a free or civilized nation?

censorship

What we’re witnessing is a removal of options and a crackdown on dissent. Like the removing of words from the dictionary in 1984, a gradual, incremental removal of liberties and choices. Remove choices and you force compliance. Remove ideas and you control the masses. Now I don’t want anarchy and I don’t want to watch child pornography but  I do want to be free. I want to be able to choose how I live and I want the freedom to choose wrongly. I don’t mind law and I’m perfectly willing to accept consequences for breaking the law, however, if I am unable to choose then there is no virtue in my living according to the rules. Without the possibility of a choice to be virtuous or wicked I lose my humanity,  I merely exist. I take up space and I consume and I die. I’m a cow with thumbs and a credit card. Relax you over-caffeinated fuck, you’re still free!  Yeah sure, free to stay safe in my house, to keep buying from big business’ catalogue of state-approved freedoms. Free to keep working to attain material wealth to spend on trivialities to anesthetize the deep feeling of loss I can’t articulate for a life I’m incapable of imagining. Keep the wheels of commerce greased. Have a Big Mac. Dial 13-bigfaketits. We’re being dumbed down and fattened up, ready for the slaughter. 

Coming Soon To Australia: Keep an eye out for book burnings, sedition charges, witch hunts and ethnic cleansing. 

* Fact: The average age of gamers in Australia is 30 yet there is no R18+ game rating in Australia. Think about it.  Stephen Conroy, you’re a stupid, stupid useless cunt of a man.

Old People Are Rubbish.

Posted in Wankers In Denial with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 7, 2009 by Buck Frain

RENTON:   Right. So we all get old and then we can’t hack it any more. Is that it?

SICK BOY:   Yeah.

 

RENTON:   That’s your theory?

 

SICK BOY:   Yeah, beautifully fucking illustrated.

 

RENTON:   Give me the gun. 

 

Old people fuck me off, I’m not going to lie about it. They just give me the fucking shits. I mean, I completely understand that I’m headed that way, as we all are. I’ll get old, I’ll lose my shit and I’ll die. Inevitable…unless I get killed while I still have my faculties – which, considering how many people I seem to piss off, is a real possibility. I know there are a load of things that old people are great for – stealing prescription drugs from, telling really long, pointless anecdotes badly, smelling weird – but generally, old people are rubbish and nowhere is this more apparent than on the road.

 

Twice today I’ve nearly been killed by stupid old wankers in cars. The first was a senile old bint who was so shrunken she could barely see between the steering wheel and the dash. Long after the light had turned red and people filed onto the pedestrian crossing this daft old crone pilots her ancient Peugeot through the intersection. I was over half-way across the road so she’d had plenty of chance to work out the light was red. Two people ahead of me leapt forward to get out of the way, I had to jump back wards to avoid being hit. As I went back I slapped the roof of the car as it went past. Eventually she reacted, screeching to a halt, gazing around, wide-eyed, spasmodically gaping and pouting like a fish drowning in air and blinking furiously behind coke-bottle glasses.

 

THE LIGHT’S FUCKING RED!!!, I screamed.

 

She continued pathetically to fish-mouth at the world and blink, I made my way to the imagined safety of the footpath. The lights changed. She stayed there. The cars behind her started to blast horns at her to move her decrepit arse out of the shitting way. This spooked her even more and I was starting to wonder whether she was having some kind of stroke when finally synapses must have fired and with a cliché grind of gears, the old beast lumbered into motion and lurched unsteadily across the intersection before limping on up the road. God help the poor fuckers up there.

 stupid_old_driver

Deciding I needed to take a breather from the world I ordered a coffee at a nearby café and sat at one of their outdoor tables on the footpath where I could watch the world go by…or so I thought. A geriatric fuckstick in a late 70s BMW dropped in on me. Literally. He reverse parallel parked his way into my table. Slowly. Meticulously. He reversed until the back wheel of the BMW mounted the curb. Then he continued…into the steel barriers the café had erected next to their tables. Neither the sensation nor the noise of the collision registered. I stepped away from the table and yelled an indignant Hey! as he continued back pushing barrier into chair into table and scraping Jesus out of the side of what had looked to have been a pristine automotive specimen. Still no reaction from Jurassic Heidfeld. Satisfied, he applied the handbrake, turned the car off and got out. He wouldn’t have looked back except that I finally broke his fog with a hearty:

 

HEY! Nice parking, mate!

 

Whaaat?, He enquired.

 

I said NICE PARKING!!! What are you doing? You just parked in my fucking coffee!

 

Again just the vulnerable, vacant stare of second childishness.

 

Look! Look at this. You could have killed someone. Look! Are you blind? You’re on the footpath, you smashed into all this stuff! Didn’t you hear it???

 

Slowly he came around and saw the remains of a bent chair trapped between barrier and a now-mashed-but-sturdily-bolted-down table. He studied the side of his car and the damage. Eventually looking up he asked:

 

Are you alright?

 

Yes, I’m fine, but fuck dude, maybe you shouldn’t be driving! You could have killed someone.

 

Oh…(long pause while he gave the impression of considering all this new information)…sorry.

 

And that was it. He just shambled off across the street to do whatever crazy old man shit he had to do. I was amazed. WHAT THE SHIT??? The café manager came out, he was righteously fucked off at his bent table and chair arrangement. I explained what had happened, left my details with him if the police or insurance needed a statement and left him to it.

 

Why the backed-up-colostomy-bag don’t old people just admit it? I mean, they must fucking realise that their reflexes are shot to shit, that their peripheral vision is virtually non-existent and that their brains have scaled back all sensory input to a bare minimum despite the world carrying on just as it always has. Surely they must realise they’ve fucking lost it! I guess like the rest of the species they’re just in denial about their own shitness. I suppose it makes sense, why start facing up to it after the fun bits have gone and you’re back to shitting your pants, eating dog food and begging for attention.

 

The only responsible solution for society is that we take their fucking licences away so they can’t destroy the lives of people who still have something to live for. Fucking test their reflexes, test their vision and hearing. Every fucking year! and as soon as they start to lose their shit cut the shitting licence up. Fuck them. Let the old fuckers walk home, or catch the bus or buy a fucking zimmer frame. Anything so long as they’re not running over people who’ve still got some miles on the clock. SELFISH OLD SHIT-SACKS!!!

 

You think I’m being ageist? Fuck you! I’ll take the fucking test. I don’t fucking care. Make everyone take it. I’m happy for anyone who’s a useless fucktard to be taken off the road. I’m happy for us to start euthanasing the pathologically useless en masse. I mean, tolerance is great but I don’t want to get killed by it! FUCKIN’ WAKE UP, HUMANITY, IT’S NOT LIKE WE’RE SHORT OF PEOPLE ON THIS ROCK!!!

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-House Living Suck – #8

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 17, 2008 by Buck Frain

#8. Power, Politics & Paranoia

Someone much wiser and more educated than me once said Everything is political, they were bloody well right too! Even the most politically apathetic, socially recalcitrant house-mate will become a political animal once placed in the share-house arena, in fact they’ll probably be the absolute worst, grubbing around for every little piece of leverage they can get.

 

There are many different types of political animal to be found in share-houses. I’m sure you’ve met a great many of them. The annoying shit-stirrers, painful meeting-obsessed peace-makers, militant law-makers, to name but a few. Then there are the innumerable games they play and the territories they try to annex to mark out their power base in the house so they can feel at home. Ownership of the remote control, occupation of the couch, rights over the stereo, responsibility for putting out bins. Pigs, bitches and borrowers are political positions and indicative of the ever fluctuating power dynamic of the share-house.

 

Whether you like it or not you’ll play the game. It’s impossible to avoid unless you want to be the bitch. Guys play different to girls, singles play different to couples but everyone plays.

 

Power, or Hand is what they all want. It makes life easier. The great thing about having Hand is that you rarely have to use it. A look is enough. A raised eyebrow or a carefully understated turn of phrase has the other player tying themselves in knots to avoid a conflict they can’t win. But Hand is a fickle mistress. She has to be maintained and can be very easily lost. One night where you get so drunk you wake up in the hallway without pants can end your political reign in a house. Or not – just like in real politics, if you can spin the facts in your own favour you may walk away with more respect than you had to start with.

 

In an enlightened household where mutual respect is the going currency the need for this struggle for Hand is minimal and everyone can relax, unfortunately, such households are generally regarded as fictional. The share-house is not like a home, it’s more like a battlefield. It’s all about survival and your enemies are everywhere, smiling like dirty bastards and then stealthily sticking passive-aggressive notes to the fridge as soon as no-one’s looking.

 

I don’t like aggression, especially at home, it’s unnecessary and crude. Passive-aggression, though, really gives me the right royal cunt. There is nothing more fucked in the entire universe than the smug, cowardly shitfulness that passive-aggressive people ooze out onto the rest of humanity. Just be up-front and honest! I don’t mind people getting the massive screaming shits with me but I cunting well hate passive-aggression with a vengeance. If I was ever to murder someone it would probably be because of some smarmy passive-aggressive piece of skullfuckery. Unfortunately, whilst murdering people is relatively easy, getting away with it is not and the authorities seem to take a pretty dim view of it even when there’s compelling evidence that society is better off as a result.

 

So what’s to do? I could fight back, honest aggression style, I could fight back like a dog-felching-passive-aggressive wank-stain, but fighting leads to a win-lose situation that may not be stacked in my favour. What if I’m not tough enough to win on aggression? What if I’m not enough of a douche-bag to win the passive-aggressive-I-wish-I-was-Oscar-Wilde-cunty-shit-eater game? Guess I’d just have to take the loss, huh? You’d think that, wouldn’t you? You’d probably be able to go back through all those previous house-mate battles and count up all the victories where you had Hand, wouldn’t you? Yeah, that prick just had to fuckin’ wear it, ha ha! And maybe you’d be right. Maybe your adversary walked away with his tail between his legs and took the loss like an honourable man. Hmm…honour…there’s the rub. If honour were present we wouldn’t really have this problem in the first place. Never underestimate your opponent, and never, ever fuck with a coward!

 

Remember your toothbrush. Remember where it is. How vulnerable and alone it is when you’re not around. Remember all the dirty things in its immediate vicinity. Have you ever brushed your teeth and thought your toothbrush tasted funny but shuffled the thought away with a rationalisation like: It’s winter…it’s damp…the air doesn’t circulate in here. What lies have you told yourself so you didn’t have to acknowledge that your toothbrush may have visited the toilet? That your toothbrush may have been pissed on? That it may have been up the cat’s bum? Because it may have. It’s conceiveable – when did you last see the cat? But, no, how pissed off would someone have to be to do that? Maybe a lot…hmmm, maybe not so much – how widely hated is the cat? There are many areas where you are vulnerable to a terrorist attack by the people you live with. Yes, a terrorist attack. Terror is the only response available to the oppressed so think about it. If someone dunked their nob into your cottage cheese and stirred it around a bit, then put the cottage cheese back in the fridge – would you know? In a world without honour, how much Hand do you really have?