Archive for Warnings

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!

Why does the fish man smile at me like that?

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 31, 2008 by Buck Frain

Within the seafood industry there is a joke. A nasty, nasty joke.

 

I went the market on Wednesday and bought some fish. I enjoy cooking and fresh fish is a wonderful thing.  So I looked at the various things on offer and my eye was caught by some big butterfish steaks on special. I lived in South Australia for a while and butterfish is the standard fish-n-chip-shop fish. It’s a mild, white flesh fish, nothing fancy but very pleasant. These steaks looked fantastic, they were from a much bigger specimen than the fish-n-chip-shop fillets back in S.A., thickly cut, succulent-looking and at a price that was impossible to go past.

 

I asked for one of the butterfish steaks and the thin guy behind the counter pointed at them with eyebrows slightly raised to check he’d heard me right. Yeah, just one. I confirmed with an upheld index finger. He smiled a little quizzical half-smile, barely noticeable, was it a polite acknowledgement of a wise choice? Was it nothing to do with me? I paid for the fish and thought no more about it.

 

I pan-fried my butterfish steak with some chopped spring onion, fresh ginger, soy and lime juice. Served with steamed vegetables and wasabi mash, and accompanied by a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, it was pretty damn good if I do say so myself.

 

The next morning I got the joke.

 

I had to go to work early, there was a briefing for a new business job that was coming into field. Fuck, briefings are boring. Sit in a plastic chair and listen to some reasty twat who doesn’t know the first thing about communication, with a monotone, barely audible voice drone on and on about some bullshit survey. Sweet cunting Jesus, I could fucking kill myself! I stopped at a café on the way to buy some liquid fortitude.

 

While waiting for the coffee I felt the sharp pain of a rogue fart just bursting to get out. There was no-one else around me so I figured I could just gently let it out silently and no-one would be the wiser. I misjudged. Not by much but it was enough. It would have been literally a matter of milliseconds before I resecured my sphincter but the damage was done. No sound, but the deadly warm wetness of a shart. I’d shat, just a little but there was no mistake. In the middle of a coffee shop I had shat myself. Escape. I caught the eye of the girl making my coffee Excuse me, I just need to use the bathroom. I shuffled off to the bathroom trying desperately not to look conspicuous or to spread the damage too far, or more imortantly to let go of my tightly clenched sphincter which, I was certain, was holding back a great tsunami of shit.

Through the door, into the cubicle, lock, belt, trousers-undies-sit, release. Oh fucking hell! A terrifying splatterfest of semi-solids and jetting liquid erupted from me. The stench made me dry retch. My own stench made me dry retch. The tsunami subsided. I realised I was sitting on the toilet arms outstretched, bracing against the walls of the cubicle. I relaxed my arms and looked down at my underpants to inspect the damage. It was just a small streak of liquid at the arse crack. I checked and it hadn’t soaked through to the pants. Big relief. Leg by leg I extricated myself from the soiled undies replacing my pants. What to do with them.

 

I stood and turned to see the damage in the bowl. WHAT THE FUCK? To my unmitigated horror, the fairly regular, squishy looking turds floating in the bowl were in surrounded and coated by a layer of clear orange-brown oil. I swear it is true. There was a layer of oil over the water in the bowl. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. I’d shat an oil slick. I looked at the crotch of the undies. It was oil. I sniffed them. EW! Only once, dry retch again. They stank of shit (surprising!) and old fish. Fucking butterfish! That was the fucking cryptic smile. He fucking knew. THAT DIRTY MOTHERFUCKER KNEW AND HE SAID NOTHING!!! CUNT!!!

 

Butterfish should come with a warning – MAY CAUSE ANAL LEAKAGE! I never understood the term anal leakage before but this was it. The sphincter, that wonderful muscular device which can tell solid from liquid from gas so effectively. That magical sphincter is rendered completely useless by oil. And just for those of you laughing your arses off right now: anal leakage SUCKS!!! FUCK YOU, FISH GUY!

 

Keep it together. I had to get my coffee and go to work. Ah, the coffee. Fuck, work! My gut rumbled. Ooh. There was going to be more visits today, I would be on anal guard like a bastard all day. But now I knew the score, I wouldn’t get caught again. It’s not a fart, just remember it’s not a fart, maybe you’ll never be able to fart with pants on ever again. That’s OK, I can live with that, just please let me not shit myself at work.

 

I wiped and straightened myself out. I flushed. Oh God NO!!! The horror. Oil, being lighter than water, doesn’t want to flush away. After four flushes I gave up and left a few little pools of oil floating in the bowl. I opened the cubicle door, still alone, took my oil-shat undies to the sink and washed them rigorously with hand soap, wrung them out and stood at the hand drier drying them, silently praying no-one would randomly enter, or even worse, come looking for me. Fuck, how long had I been away?

 

The undies dried. No-one came. I was ready with a what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at expression if someone did come in. What, you’ve never seen a guy drying his underpants before? Back to the cubicle, pants down leg-by-leg undies back on. Two more flushes, just for luck, out, wash hands.

 

I returned to the café, paid for the coffee and left. It was cold, the coffee girl looked at me a bit funny, I realised I was sweating, she probably thought I’d gone in for a sly phone-wank, I was late for work – fuck you, wobblers! During the course of the day I had five more shits – all with, thankfully, decreasing amounts of oil.

 

I tell you this: everything in this post is true. Beware of butterfish! Be afraid of butterfish! VERY FUCKING AFRAID! Butterfish causes anal leakage. Unless you are buying it from a fish-n-chip shop in South Australia, in which case I suspect it’s just flake, DON’T FUCKING BUY IT!!! It’s a joke fish, we’re not meant to eat it, fishmongers stock and sell it purely for comedy value, the rotten fuckers! If you buy and eat it then your arse will leak oil and you’ll shit your pants.

 

If, on the other hand, you’re looking for something to serve to people you hate, this is the dish for you, it’ll fuck ’em!