Archive for Lifestyle

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #10

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 9, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

#10. Financial Usurpation & The Crafty Bail-Out.

 

Contrary to the postulations of that twat, Bean-bag-dick Peter, I do not share the opinion that the majority of people choose to share accommodation with strangers out of some altruistic sense of community and shared resources. I do not believe that people are driven by socialist virtue into the company of randoms. I tend to think rather that people live with strangers because they are too fucking poor to live on their own. Yes, that seems a good deal more reasonable to me – poverty not choice forces share-house living. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you saw the Sultan of Brunei looking for a relaxed, employed, dog-friendly male or female non-smoker to share sunny 3 bedroom house in St Kilda with unfeasibly wealthy monarch and yoga instructor? Never, and that’s not because he lives in Altona, it’s because he’s fucking rich and doesn’t have to bum around looking for vaguely trustworthy/tolerable fucksticks to share a rat-infested shit-hole with.

 

One of the fuckedest things about share-house living is that your poverty forces you, not only to live with strangers, but into financial interdependence with them. How people deal with money is a very personal thing. It’s not like personal hygiene, you can’t tell financial responsibility by looking at someone or by having a close chat with them and sniffing for cheese. No, you’ve got to wait until the fucker moves in to find out what they’re really like. I tend to think I’m pretty financially responsible. I’ve never had lots of money but I try to live within my means. I pay my bills on time. Boring perhaps, but I find I’m less stressed when I don’t have people chasing me for money and I take pleasure in the little things like being allowed to stay in my house and electricity. A lot of people don’t seem to see things the way I do. A lot of people don’t care for being financially responsible nor for financial commitments nor for the impact their lack of responsibility may have on their co-habitants. I’m no great fan of the rich but a lot of poor people are, in my experience, complete cunts.

 

Why?

 

Rent. Even before you move in you know it’s there. You know how much it is and when it’s due. You don’t own the house, therefore you have to pay rent – that’s the deal. Simple, you may think, but how many excuses are there?

 

Wow, is it this week?

It’s the same week every month and you never get it right. Can I offer you a calendar and some nice bright marker pens?

 

Oh, no, I’m broke.

I know, you’re also an alcoholic who’s addicted to poker machines. Your addictions are now impeding my recreation. Personally, I’d feel better about paying the rent on your room if it were empty and I knew you were living in a public toilet, blowing married businessmen for change.

 

But I’ve been living at my girlfriend’s place this month!

But your shit has been here, dog-fucker, pay the slutting rent!

 

Even worse than the fuck who can’t pay his rent is the criminal shit-sack who takes everyone’s cash to pay the rent but goes on a bender instead, a fact you find out two weeks later when the landlord sends you a letter telling you you’ll all be evicted if you don’t pay up immediately.

 

I’ll pay it back, jeez!

ARSE!!! I’ll stab you in your fucking sleep!!!

 

People are selfish and fucked! How many petty little arguments do you have to endure about bills?

 

Why should I pay more for the phone bill? I thought we were splitting it.

Well, you’ve racked up $300 from calling your ex-boyfriend in Japan. Fuck you!

 

Hey this is too much for electricity, I’m not paying this!

Eat shit! Maybe you’d like to get your stupid girlfriend to chip in seeing as she’s living here rent-free to get away from her parents, is unemployed hence here all the time, using all the hot water, eating my food, leaving her crap everywhere and she never cleans a fucking thing. How’d that be?

 

Of course, you may have it all worked out. You may have house-mates who pay their bills and rent. Congratulations, fucker! But what happens when circumstances change? Do they still remember their responsibilities? I came home from work one day to find a note from one of my house-mates the day before rent was due:

 

Hi guys, Dave and I broke up. I’m really screwed up so I’m going back to Sydney to get my shit together. I’ll miss you, Marnie xx

 

Fuck you, Marnie, where’s the shitting rent? Where’s the bill money? Where’s the 4 weeks notice? Why has your mobile phone been cut off? Nice work, bitch, just bail out. Just fuck right off and leave us carrying the shit! Fuck missing us, I HOPE YOU GET SCALPED IN A WORKPLACE ACCIDENT!!!

 

You’re completely trapped in a share-house. You’re bound in a loveless, sexless polygamous marriage ‘til death do you part with people you don’t know and have never loved. Even if you manage to extricate yourself from an ugly share-house situation, the utilities are probably in your name and gradually over the next 10 years your credit rating will be decimated by unreliable goat-felching bastards you never even met who aren’t paying their bills.

 

Some people are poor because they weren’t born with money and haven’t made it yet. Others are poor because they can’t count and are crap with money. But then there are those who are poor because they share houses with bastards who refuse to honour their commitments or plan or budget and instead just suck the life out of anyone who comes anywhere near them. I fucking hate these bastards. I want to make them pay. I want to kill them. I want to fuckin’ kill them! I WANT TO FUCK AND KILL THEM!!!

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 – #5

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 6, 2008 by Buck Frain

#5. Bermuda Triangle Shelf, Permaculture Fridge.

 

This is where my food lives…temporarily. Permaculture Fridge is a living entity. It has a dense fertile undergrowth starting in the crisper – has anything ever gotten crisper by being put in this device? It seems like an invention designed to do the opposite, to reduce vegetable matter to a sweaty sludge in as little time as possible. This undergrowth lends the whole fridge a rainforesty dankness and creeps green tendrils up into the body of the fridge. The shelves bear the congealed dribbles of meals long gone. There are numerous sauces, cling-film-covered meals that weren’t any good when fresh and that have long since faded into the dusty recesses of the addled memories of their creators. These are a definite danger, they all potentially contain massive fungal blooms as well as bacterial specimens that would be more-rightly at home in a biological weapons laboratory.

 

These are objects of warning, talismans to protect any genuine food from evil spirits or opportunistic house-mates – borrowers – there are also distractions like a naked, dried piece of cheese or a dessicated half-onion. The Borrowers are a special breed of carrion-feeding share-house inhabitants. They never buy their own food, they borrow other people’s, their name aquired from their most popular excuse on the rare occasions they actually get caught pilfering house-mates’ food. Hey, I was just borrowing it, I didn’t think you’d mind.  Always delivered in a completely dead-pan manner with a vaguely aggrieved tone that aims to suggest that their captor is being unbelievably petty and materialistic. If necessary, they’ll follow up with a Relax, man, it’s just a piece of chicken, I’ll buy you another one, jeez! Yeah, sure they will, don’t be fooled it’ll never happen.

 

The great paradox of Permaculture Fridge is that for something that looks as though it’s been abandoned for centuries and is waiting to be discovered by archaeologists, it requires constant monitoring by the borrowers. This is necessary for their own survival, for although they are a hardy species, if they let their monitoring lapse they may well eat an expired talisman by mistake and poison themselves. If only the rest of us could be that lucky but the crafty fuckers are on their game. You can’t leave anything in there without it, or at least a part of it, disappearing – especially if it’s left on my shelf, Bermuda Triangle Shelf.

 

The complete disappearance is most common on Bermuda Tringle Shelf, one minute it’s there, next time you open the fridge voomp! it’s gone – never to be seen again unless you check the bin or the recycling. Beer is always one of the first things to be sucked away into the void. The partial disappearance is the more insidious as it not only reduces one’s food supply but also assumes a level of stupidity by the borrower responsible who doesn’t think I’ll notice my food disappearing bite-by-bite, or that I may attribute it to natural causes. Hmm…I suppose it is conceivable that there are a new breed of cold-resistant mice that live in Permaculture Fridge. I, however, being a cynical fucker, tend to think that it’s more likely some stinking fucking hippy stealing my food. I will fucking get you one day, Borrowers, ONE FUCKING DAY!!!

 

 

* For those who came in late: I no longer live in a share-house, this series is a retrospective. As I’ve mentioned previously,  I now live alone – like other people would put up with me, are you kidding? The reason I am sharing my loathing of the whole share-house situation is outlined in the first post of the series. I only mention this to save you the indignity of commenting on the post as if it refers to my current life which it doesn’t, or as if everything I mention were happening in one particularly cuntful house rather than being the biggest annoyances from a number of share-house experiences. Also, to Peter, if you’re still reading: get fucked!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #4

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

#4. Sleep Deprivation & Forced Live Audio Porn.

 

In retrospect, the polished floorboards in the entrance hall weren’t as great an idea as they looked. When every bedroom comes off the hallway they turned out to be a complete hedgehog-stuffed-rectum amplifying even the most discreet of entrances into major seismic events. Fuck you, aesthetics! It was a bad call – go for carpet next time!

 

That’s just life, the stuff that really sand-papers my nob, however, is the blatant lack of consideration shown by supposedly civilised adults to their co-habitants. I don’t mind GTA at 3am, if I didn’t have to be up in three hours it could be me sitting in the living room belting ‘round in a stolen Camaro running over innocent bystanders and shooting gangsters. What I mind is that it’s at a volume that has the bass rattling the window in my bedroom. What the shit is wrong with you? Are you deaf? Did you forget that you don’t live alone?

 

There are various permutations of this sort of selfishness, random 4am techno music, the bastard-o’clock* pissed domestic dispute.

You’re a fuckin’ cunt! You never loved me, you just haven’t got the balls to tell me to my face!!! Have ya? Nah, I didn’t think so!

 

Let go a mah fuckin’ hair ya mad bitch! Jesus, why d’you fuckin’ reckon I drink? Couldn’t put up wi’ your shit sober!

 

I’m not stupid enough to leave my room to find out who’s stuff they’re smashing, I’ll just make sure I remember to put on shoes before I go to the loo. Even worse than the domestics though, is the forced live audio porn show. Maybe I should blame architects for poor sound insulation but – fuck it – you know you live with other people. I’m all for people having fulfilling sex lives but when I feel like I’m on the fucking sideline and all I want to do is sleep, it’s fucked. The last thing I need is to hear my nineteen year old house-mate brutally training her new beau in the delicate art of cunnilingus.

No, there. No…no…no, get over here…here!!! *slap* OW! Don’t fuckin’ bite it! Lick it, dickhead! There. There. Yeah! NO!!! *slap* There…put your finger in! No! Like this…yeah? Yeah…that’s it…yeah…no, there…NO!!! *slap slap slap* Well?…get back down!

 

Poor bastard had the absolute piss slapped out of him. He didn’t last. I admire a girl who knows what she wants but not when I’m trying to sleep. She was scary, she woke me up one night and I thought I was next-door to The Exorcist.

Fuck me Jesus! Fuck me hard, Jesus! Ooh, harder, Jesus!

 

I’m serious – she was actually calling him Jesus, not just blaspheming-in-the-heat-of-passion. I saw Jesus the next morning – his name was Brian…he didn’t even have a beard!

 

I had a room for a while next to a guy who always got himself into trouble for trying to slip his female visitors a backdoor surprise. He got a lot of very colourful reactions including a nasty cut above his eye that needed five stitches. On the other side, he once ended up with a young Greek girl he couldn’t shake for about six months, she didn’t seem to like him at all as a person – not many people did – but he had certainly touched a nerve with her.

 

I suppose it’s all terribly comical when it’s not you, isn’t it? Yeah, ha-ha-cunting-ha! But what if it is you? What if you get no sleep at all? What if you then have to do a full day’s work or uni or both and then come back to a quiet house only to have it all start again as soon as you’ve fallen asleep? It would become wearing, don’t you think? Just a bit? Sleep deprivation does bad things to people. It does very bad things to the brain and caffeine alone cannot fix them, no no no it can’t. SHUTTUP!!! IT FUCKIN’ CAN’T!!! You get too many sleepless nights due to the selfishness of the deviates you live with and you can start to lose that easy-going approach to communal living. You can get snappy, unfriendly…violent even. I don’t know, maybe I’m just a bad and intolerant person but I need my sleep. I FUCKING NEED IT!!! SO, IF YOU DON’T LET ME SLEEP, I’LL KILL YOU ALL, YOU CUNTY, CUNTY, COCK-STAPLING FUCK-FREAKS!!!

 

* Bastard o’clock –  The hour of the morning when you realise there’s too much light in the sky for there to be any hope of feeling even vaguely normal at any point during the next 24 hours.

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #3

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2008 by Buck Frain


#3. Bio-hazard Bathroom

Let me make this clear: I am not a clean freak. I’m not like the former emergency room nurse I lived with for a while who used to disinfect everything including the walls on a daily basis. Incidentally, she was great, I never lived in a house so clean – it’s just a shame she was also a paranoid schizophrenic, we were on a good wicket for a while.

I am realistic – I get that there is dirt and I tolerate it in moderation but seriously, what the chewed-off-piss-flaps is wrong with people? Why do these pigs insist on living in their own filth? It makes me want to vomit in their beds, and I mean a really good cheese-fondue-and-red-wine vomit that stains and stinks with equal power. Fuck it – the bathroom is where you come to get clean. When the floor of the shower is slick with a layer of – what the shit is that? Algae? – when black mould is climbing up the soap-crusted glass of the shower screen, it’s just revolting. How can I get clean in filth? It’s impossible. 

I try anyway but when I reach for the soap I see it is covered with pubes. Not just one or two, although that would be bad enough, but fucking hundreds of them. Is there actually any soap underneath? I don’t fucking know I’m just trying not to throw up. The Soap Pube Bandit has struck again. It bewilders me how anyone can lose this many pubes regularly. Does one of my house-mates have cancer? The bastard better fucking well die from it if they’re going to keep being such a filthy maggot. Surely you can see the pubes when you put the soap back in its dish! I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t my  soap. Buy your fucking own, you cunting great shit-smeared gorilla! I’d buy shower gel except I can’t find one with a lockable lid to prevent wasteful borrowers from using half the bottle in one day. How dirty can you possibly get? What the fuck needed that much lathering? No, no, don’t answer that!!! 

The shower is just a part of it. There’s the scum-tide rings in the bath, there’s the dribbly nob. Most houses have a dribbly nob. Someone who just can’t get all their piss in the toilet bowl. I’m not talking about the occasional incidence of a house-mate being too rat-arsed to aim straight, although that too is pretty offensive – How did you get piss there? Were you lying down? – I’m talking about the guy who lets the last dribble of piss land on the floor just in front of the bowl. He does it every single time and when do I become aware of it? At 3am when I drowsily stumble barefoot into the bathroom and awaken myself by stepping in someone else’s cold urine. WHAT THE CUNT IS WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU 80 YEARS OLD??? DIE, YOU STINKING FUCKER, DIE!!! 

But it never ends, there’s the chalky layer of spat toothpaste speckled with beard stubble in the hand basin – what the fuck? Then, has someone been using my toothbrush? What sort of ballbag uses someone else’s toothbrush? Can’t you tell the difference between them? Aren’t the primary colours and variations in design and bristle pattern vivid enough distinctions? Excuse me, do you have Hepatitis C?

Quick fact: Hey, filth-mongers, you can get Hep C from sharing a toothbrush and there is NO cure for it!

Have you used my razor as well? It was brand new and now it’s duller than Peter Costello‘s autobiography. Let’s hope you don’t have HIV either, you cock-rotting fucktard! Yes, there are lots of things you can get from sharing razors and most people don’t demand blood tests from the people they share houses with but perhaps they should – when you think about it seriously the stakes are pretty damn high. So, how did you get HIV? Unprotected, anonymous bum sex? Oh no, I once shared a house with a complete cunt! 

The stand-off between pigs and bitches reaches fever pitch in the bathroom. This can be the room where the battle is lost or won. It’s personal and the stakes are very high, it will provoke many a lively discussion but if the players are stubborn and no-one gives it can be the deciding factor in people leaving a house. 

I fucking refuse to share my bathroom with pigs. I live on my own, I’m happy and clean and I don’t take my life in my hands every time I use the shitting bathroom!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck.

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

 

If it wasn’t bad enough that I have had to endure the indignity of disability and the smug, well-humoured Hoh hoh, what have you done to yourself?s  that go along with it, I had a particularly malignant acquaintance capitalise on my misfortune in order to prove his bullshit neo-hippy thesis that my living alone makes me an elitist fuck and that I should get over my self-importance and live in a share-house like a real person, thus helping save the planet by being more economical with energy and water and, of course, breaking less crockery by having house-mates who’d do the dishes.

 

Peter,

Fuck you! You are a complete cunt! If I thought I could get away with it I would chop your head off and stuff it in your fucking worm farm, you patronising perma-culture-shit-freak. Everyone hates you, did you know that? Everyone at work also suspects you are a chronic masturbator because you always look vaguely sweaty and glassy eyed and you’re too anal to just be stoned at work. In addition, you know how you shagged Emma from accounts after the Christmas party? And how you bragged about it like a complete wank-stain? She told me and Shane that you couldn’t get it up, and that then you cried and said it was because you’d really fancied her for ages and you were just overwhelmed by the moment. Ha ha ha ha ha!!! She told us this the next night at the pub and since then we’ve been gradually shopping the tale around to everyone, that’s why the new girls always smile at you! Ah, you suck!

DON’T EVER TALK TO ME AGAIN OR I’LL BURN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE DOWN!!!

 

Sorry. Back to my point. Peter had made me really angry. How dare he suggest I go back to share-house life? I beat the nightmare of shared accommodation and I vowed never to go back. The more I thought about how much of a cunt Peter is and why I hate share-house living, the more reasons I found to stick to my guns. So for your entertainment, in no particular order I will share 11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck.

 

#1 Pigs, Bitches & Dishes Berserker.

 

OK, so that’s three shit things. I only really wanted to talk about dishes berserker but in order to do that it’s important that everyone understand the nature of pigs and bitches.

 

In a perfect world the inhabitants of a share-house would distribute household duties evenly between them, there would be no need of rosters, reminders, snide remarks or passive-aggressive notes. It would be an anarchic utopia where the people would organize themselves and live in equitable harmony. I imagine most people who have endured shared accommodation will have found that life is rarely so idyllic.

 

In my experience every share-house has a pig. This is the dirtiest person in the house and they will determine the dirt level the rest of the occupants have to endure unless a bitch can be found. A bitch is anyone who’s filth tolerance is lower than their resistance to becoming everyone else’s mum. They will end up cleaning up everyone else’s crap because they can’t stomach living in an open sewer. Pigs prey on this characteristic and wait it out until the bitch reveals themselves. They don’t necessarily enjoy living in filth, they just have an aversion to cleaning. The bitch mantle once earned is hard to shed.

 

If no bitch appears, sooner or later  the house runs out of dishes which presents a problem. In my experience this precipitates a discussion in which everyone eventually agrees to take turns at doing the dishes, whilst secretly hoping that a bitch can still be found. So a stand-off develops, the dishes pile up and no-one does them until there are no more and every surface of the kitchen is covered in dirty, smelly, crusted-up dishes, then the person whose turn it is relents and does dishes berserker*. That is, unless they’re on tour in Queensland for a month with their stupid band like a total cunt, in which case the remaining occupants have to fight it out amongst themselves.

 

I fucking hate doing the dishes. I don’t imagine there are too many people who truly love it but it’s one of many things that really shits me off. Unfortunately, I also really despise dirt. I make a strong distinction between dirt and mess. I don’t mind a place being a bit messy and other people’s things lying around as long as it’s not dirty (within reason, of course – don’t leave your rubber fist on the coffee table no matter how clean it is, that’s just wrong). Dirt is disgusting, but as much as I hate dirt, I’m fucked if I’ll just lie down and be bitch just because the cock-rotting fuck-pigs I live with have no sense of domestic hygiene. Dishes berserker is completely fucked and so are pigs and bitches.

 

*Dishes Berserker is so called because it is a truly epic undertaking. Where doing the dishes for anyone in a normal household takes 10-15 minutes, dishes berserker can cover the entire tracklist of three CDs and still leaves in its wake another, potentially more hazardous, problem.

Muti-tasking Or Being A Useless Twat?

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 17, 2008 by Buck Frain

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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