Archive for Violence

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!!!

You Wouldn’t Steal A Car – Rip & Burnout!

Posted in Wankers In Denial with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 6, 2008 by Buck Frain

DVD copyright warnings. What the cat-fisting Jesus is with all the warnings? I mean, I go to the shop and buy a DVD. I fucking well BUY it! I take it home and before I’m allowed to watch the fucking thing that I own for fuck’s sake I have to sit through a warning about what will happen if I steal, copy or profit from its piracy. I fucking own it and I have to put up with this accusatory bullshit before I can watch what I legally own! It’s not even like the good old VHS days when you could fast forward through all the shit to get to the good stuff, you have to watch it. And not just once! When you’ve got through one warning you then get a lame-arsed commercial to crappy warning music with fast edits flashing slogans telling you: You wouldn’t steal a car! You wouldn’t steal a handbag! and a whole bunch of other shit so Don’t steal movies! and Movie piracy is stealing! and blah blah shit shit shit. WHAT THE FUCK??? I CUNTING WELL OWN IT, YOU DRIBBLING, SYPHILLITIC NOB-ENDS!!! Even if I didn’t own it, even if I’d just rented it from the fucking video store, isn’t it a bit presumptuous to assume I’m going to want to steal it before I’ve even watched the cunting thing? For fuck’s sake, what if it sucks? Why the fuck would I steal a turd?

 

Having bought Season 3 of The Mighty Boosh and put it in my player, part-way through the multiple warnings I’ll have to watch every time I want to view the DVD, I got so fucked off I just stood up and stomped my coffee table to pieces Eh, master-race IKEA bullshit, I always despised you anyway! took the pieces out into my courtyard, doused them in lighter fluid and incinerated them. I felt a little better and as the flames of triumphant fury warmed my face I started thinking about why the DVD companies should feel the need to have so many warnings cluttering up their shit.

 

Why? Fucking why have multiple warnings about piracy before and after films as well as all over the packaging? DVDs I’ve bought from the USA have FBI warnings on them for shit’s sake! Watch out, bitches, the fuckin’ feds are comin’ to bust yo punk ass!!! It all seems a pretty heavy-handed policy of intimidation but it’s all undone by the commercials with their imploring consumers to do the right thing. To the untrained eye it would appear almost as though they’re trying to prevent something they have absolutely no control over, you know, like when kittens puff all their fur up and walk sideways in an attempt to look frightening. Except, of course, kittens are cute and they don’t prevent you watching movies you’ve paid for with a never-ending stream of pissing and moaning about what they’ll do to you if you avoid their copy-protection systems with easily-available freeware applications and burn exact digital replicas of their product rather than forking out ridiculous amounts of money for an obsolete media format. Well, be realistic, if they did you’d just lock them in the kitchen and sit down and enjoy your movie without them.

 

You wouldn’t steal a car! Well, let’s think about that: If I could steal it by cheaply making an exact replica so I’d have exactly the same car but the owner wouldn’t know I’d done it nor would he lose any benefit of his car and I’d probably never ever get caught for it- fuck it, wouldn’t I steal it? Of course I fucking would! I’d have a yard full of faux-Ferraris, Lamborghinis, you fucking name it, I’d never watch a fucking movie again!

 

If anyone has software for copying furniture please e-mail me, I need to pirate a coffee table, I’ve been spending too much money on DVDs!

It’s The McNews, McBitches!!!

Posted in Rage Against The Machine with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 28, 2008 by Buck Frain

Back when I started publishing my rage I did a post on McDonald’s and how fuckin’ furious they make me. Some people got it and naturally I also got a bunch of comments from gormless fuck-stains in denial about the corporate evil being perpetrated by corporations like McDonald’s. To all those fuck-stains: eat my shit, you suck!!!

Now I find this story saying McDonald’s have begun paying to have their product placed in news programs. ON THE FUCKING NEWS!!! The traditional territory of at least some illusion of impartiality has become an open field for corporate spruiking through product placement. Objectivity? Eat my arse! Naturally, the dirty, whoring, sycophant executives accepting this filthy lucre have been keen to state that maccas won’t be influencing news content at all. But how can we believe them? Do we realistically believe they would ever dare bite that big, fat, clown-hand now feeding them.

Recent statistics reveal obesity as the fastest growing cause of death in our country [sips from McDonald’s cup, winks at camera] but this tastes great and there are healthy options now too, so keep eating the grease, kids, and just get your doorways widened!

This marks a new low in media whorishness. Why even call it news anymore? How can we even tell when the commercials are over? This really shits my bed – any news program that accepts sponsorship in this way should be fire-bombed on principle. The only reasonable answer to this level of desperate, money-grubbing emptiness is with uncensored, mindless violence. Oh, yeah, anger management, incarceration – yeah, I’m the crazy person, I mean we live in a world where nothing exists that cannot be bought, but I’m the terrorist! I implore the benevolent scientists out there working on The Stupid Bomb to redouble their efforts. Bring on the fuckhead apocalypse! Fuckin’ stupid humans!

 

So it’s not funny – fuck you, I never said it was. You want funny, go here.

Eugenic Fantasies Inspired By Vocal Toolishness.

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 22, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

Yobbos who yell things out of cars. They are the stupidest creatures on the planet. Aside from the fact that they have nothing to say to anyone ever because their brains have atrophied from a lack of education and an excess of pre-mixed bourbon and cola, they fail to realize that whatever they scream out of the window of their work-in-progress Holden Commodores is unintelligible to anyone other than themselves. The slurred speech of drunken fucktards is bad enough but when flying past at 80km/h it’s completely indecipherable. It might as well be shrieking baboons. In fact, if angry baboons were caning a Commodore up Royal Parade shrieking at cyclists you probably wouldn’t know the difference. I’m pretty sure they weren’t baboons.

 

I find cycling quite a focused experience. There are plenty of things to be watchful for, fuckwits opening car doors without looking, fuckwits changing lanes without looking, fuckwits in trucks, taxis, buses, old fuckwits in hats, fuckwits in Volvos, any fuckwit with a fish sticker anywhere on their car and all manner of other psychopaths. But despite the exhaust fumes and the constant threat of death, there is something free and solitary about cycling that I like. Plus, it keeps me away from the plethora of annoying cunts I might take to task for their various transgressions should I be locked in close quarters with them on public transport. Yes, cycling is wonderful…until some cockbrain screams in your ear as he and his fuckwit mates hoon past. Screaming…for free…just because they’re tools.

 

It had been a quiet ride, so the jolt of random, aggressive toolishness scared the absolute shit out of me, I swerved away from the sudden noise and realised this placed me on a collision course with a very nice parked BMW, still spooked, I think I must have over-corrected and braked at the same time. After that everything is crystalline: the front wheel locked and its tyre gripped the bitumen perfectly pitching the back wheel off the ground and me forward towards a muddy white lane marking on the oily black road. My hands came out in front of me by reflex and I thought for a fragment of a second I might be able to roll out of it. One of my shoe cleats, however, had not disengaged from the pedal so the bike pursued me and, as my body was slowed by its impact with the somewhat unforgiving tarmac, my bike found safe refuge by pounding itself into the yielding softness of MY BALLS!!! Fade to grey.

 

I lay tangled in my bike in a crumpled mess on the road. My face resting against the soothingly cool, filthy bitumen, my knees and hands hurting somewhere vaguely in the distance. I writhed half-heartedly in near silence for a while. The all-consuming grey fog of ball-pain gradually lifted and I kicked myself free of the bike, rolling over to inspect the damage. Torn jeans, minor grazing, some juicy bruises to look forward to – Ah, get fucked! The bike appeared fine so with effort I gathered myself up.

 

The last time I fell off my bike was 1989…hmm, that unique mixture of pain and humiliation never changes. My inner seven year-old wanted to cry but thankfully my inner nine year-old was there to call him a pansy so we all got ourselves on the bike and eased into the tight, uncomfortable ride home you get peddling with unskinned flesh.

 

I’ve always been averse to notions like eugenics but…maybe I’ve been too hasty. Fuck ’em! If we could isolate the gene for a propensity to be a complete fuckhole in a car, and compulsorily sterilise anyone with it, the fuckwits will never pass it on to anyone ever again – the world would be a much better place. Genius, and while we’re in the lab there’s a whole bunch of other fuckers out there who shouldn’t be breeding. Bring it on! We can lay waste to all the world’s fuckwits, sure it’ll take a good 100 years for the current crop to die out, but what a grand day it would be, a world without fuckwits…

 

I think I need to have a lie down. Must take the helmet off.

 

 

http://humor-blogs.com/

 

Nick D’Arcy – Ambassador For A Nation Of Convicts.

Posted in Boof-head Sporto Fuckwits with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 8, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

Fuckin’ sporto jockstrap boof-head wankers! In this country, they are a priviledged class that sits above the rest of us mere mortals purely because of a genetic predisposition to be good at sport. They get worshipped, pampered and paid exorbitant amounts for playing games. It may be heresy to say in sport-obsessed Australia but what they do is of NO benefit to society. I don’t really care about any of that, what really shits my bed is that the Australian public are happy for athletes to flout the law, behave like reprobates and still be held up in the international sphere as paragons of our society.

 

Nick D’Arcy, the swimmer charged with assault over breaking another athlete’s cheek, jaw and palate when drunk and full of himself, looks as though he’ll still be going to represent Australia at the Beijing Olympics. The AOC and The Court of Arbitration For Sport are tying themselves up in knots trying to find a decent justification for letting him go that won’t make them look like the supporters of criminal violence that they are. I was disgusted to read this piece of apologist bullshit in The Age, desperately trying to illicit sympathy for a man who should be in prison rather than being endorsed as a cultural ambassador of his country.

 

The AOC is obliged to consider the consequences for D’Arcy if he is booted out. Cyclist Jobie Dajka was kicked out of the Athens team in 2004 after lying to a drug inquiry. Three years of depression and alcoholism ensued, and a suspended jail term for an assault on a cycling coach. “I was drinking six litres of wine a day to numb the pain,” Dajka said last month.

 

What the fuck was that? If he’s punished he might become a sad, violent substance abuser? Big fucking deal! He’s already a violent substance abuser, the only difference is he might get sad. What? Don’t most criminals become depressed when punished for their offences? Is that because punishment is not nice? Why is it we don’t feel sorry for ordinary crims? Could it be because the lousy fucks aren’t any good at sport? Yeah, what fucking losers!

 

What the ball-chafing fuck is wrong with this country? It’s Newton’s Third Law, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Just because sportspeople are too thick to be able to comprehend the consequences of their actions does not mean they should be exempt from those consequences. Yes, people fuck up. But the way people learn to not fuck up is through consequences. If a normal person gets drunk and smashes another person’s skull in a momentary fit of drunken rage, they go to prison. Any average crim would get laughed at if they said, Yeah, sorry I bashed him but can I still go to that sports carnival? The judge would say No, fucktard, you cannot. You can get a jolly good rogering from your cellmate for a couple of years while you learn to control yourself?

 

I’m well aware Nick D’Arcy probably feels pretty bad about what he’s done, as he fuckin’ well should, but I’d wager that most of why he feels bad is because he stands to lose something he cares about. Punishment has no meaning if it doesn’t hurt, so fuck him! 

 

The AOC needs to get its shit together and take a hard line on boof-head Nick D’Arcy. He’s a fucking criminal and, good athlete or not, he shouldn’t represent Australia in Beijing. If he does, we might as well teach our children to fight and tell them that bullying is fine if you’re good at sport. We might as well make certain our kids forget everything in their lives except sport because if you’re good at sport you can bash and rape your way through life with impunity. This is Australia. We’re convicts. Get fucked!!!


Shutup, Sluthead! You’re not saying anything!

Posted in Human Stupidity with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 5, 2008 by Buck Frain

What the dog-felching fuck is wrong with motorists? The horn. The fucking car horn – the single most useless automotive accessory ever, with the possible exception of Baby On Board signs. Whilst everything to do with cars has been improved over the last 100 years, the horn has become electric and that’s it, other than that it’s the fucking same.

 

Indicators, on the other hand, are great. They’re articulate, they say: I’m turning left or I’m pulling over, if you count hazard lights as well: I’m a bit fucked right now, watch you don’t get fucked too. Horns do fuck all. The just scream AAARGH! indiscriminately at everyone nearby. Even variations in duration or number of horn-blasts communicate nothing except possibly a very subjective rendering of the user’s emotional state. They have no real meaning, there is nothing they communicate categorically, and this is largely because dumb-fuck motorists use them for everything huh, it makes a noise thus making their sound utterly redundant. Horns also have no direction and so no-one really knows who’s using the horn or who at, except the person using it huh, I told him stuff! It’s all cuntfully stupid.

 

How many times have you seen some suburban sluthead leaving a friend’s house and giving the horn a cheery beep beep! What the fuck? You said goodbye to your friend before getting in the car, you thanked them for dinner, you did all that, they already know you have a car, they know you’re in your car, they can fuckin’ see you! Why the horn? It’s fucked, it’s an absolute cunt and makes me want to chase their vehicle with a cricket bat and smash the weeping-arse fuck out of it. SHUT UP, YOU SHIT-EATING FREAK!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!

 

They think the beep beep! means something? Of course it doesn’t, the same sluthead will use the same beep beep! at the lights to gently wake up the catatonic fuck in front of him who’s turning right. Sluthead  will do this even though he can’t see the CF in front of him is not moving because of something like, oh, oncoming traffic. CF doesn’t interpret the beep beep! as good-natured. He thinks that Sluthead is having an impatient go at him, so in return, he gives him the finger. Fuckwits collide! You see how poor communication can lead to people being bludgeoned to death at the side of the road with tyre irons?

 

Personally, I have no sympathy. I think every car should have a loaded gun in it and it should be legal to shoot to death anyone who uses their car horn ever. In the name of articulate communication I say death to horn users. The horn is a piece of cowardly, passive-aggressive bullshit and has been rendered completely ineffective through misuse.

 

beep beep!

 

DIE, FUCKBAG! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!