Archive for Relationships

A Valentine’s Day Wish For All.

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 14, 2010 by Buck Frain

Valentine’s Day can go and fuck a dead horse!

What a stupid, nauseatingly saccharine day. I’m not anti-romance, I just don’t get why everyone shits all over themselves for one day a fucking year. GET A GRIP FUCKHEADS, YOU’VE BEEN SOLD!!! If you’re in a relationship you have anniversaries and every day of your life to let the one you love know how special they are to you. You don’t need a generic day unless you’re a shit partner. If you’re single Valentine’s Day either makes you want to kill yourself for being a fat, ugly, stinky, socially dysfunctional, grotesque, sexually inept nebbish and utter failure OR WORSE, it turns you into a fucking desperado who can’t bear his/ser own company and would rather jettison every shred of self-respect, identity and decency in an effort to be a temporary accessory in someone else’s fantasy of their own banal excuse for a life.

Couples are the fucking worst on Valentine’s Day because they get all smug, even if they haven’t fucked for a decade, and rub their single friends’ noses in it talking about how blessed they are and how really Valentine’s Day is just a formality because every day is Valentine’s Day when you’re with your soul mate. I just want to tear their fucking lips off and vomit on their vacant, doe-eyed faces. Just fucking hurry up: breed, die and shut your fucking holes so we can all get on with life, you miserable suburban cock rags! 

It’s a little known fact that the St Valentine’s Day Massacre had nothing to do with mob rivalry and was actually revenge sparked by a nasty incident on 13th February, 1929. Al Capone had just ended a particularly unhappy love affair when he was found eating alone and sobbing into a bowl of spaghetti puttanesca by Frank Gusenberg, four of his mates and their wives. Despite the fact that their boss, Bugs Moran, and Al weren’t the best of mates, they decided to cheer ol’ Scarface up by sitting down with him to recount tales of how they all met their wives, the little cute things they loved about each other, how they all came by their pet names and their secrets for having and maintaining healthy and loving relationships. Al finally got away from them shortly after midnight and immediately boarded a flight to Florida. On his way to the airport he arranged to have the fucking lot of them (wives excluded – things were civilized back then) lined up against a wall and fucking shot first thing in the cunting morning, and so it was! Fucking wholly deserved too, I’m surprised there aren’t St. Valentine’s Day Massacres like that every fucking year. 

If you’re happy this Valentine’s Day, do us both a favour – SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!

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 – #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?

Friends Don’t Let Friends Wear Crocs.

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 20, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

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

 

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

What the fuck are they?

 

He laughed.

You like ‘em?

No. Seriously, are they yours?

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

Yeah. They’re really comfortable.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

Crocs – because suicide requires strength of character!

 

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