Tuesday, 30 November 2010

louis walsh's main exports are bullshit, terrorism and watered down whiskey

konnie huq has degraded herself by doing the x-factor


Spirituality, as a term and concept conjures up clouded, soft coloured images of flowery clothed hippies capering around an auspicious, untamed meadow. Perhaps touching each other in a manner as affectionate as it is causeless. Stroking each other's effervescent, vacant faces with hands made of love and indifferent inquisition. This is a vision which lacks direction and meaning. On a subconscious level, you - as a human, have already detected this. You have filed this information and attached keywords such as listless, vague, nebulous and wank. "Listless hippies; what a load of nebulous wank" - you might say. Well fuck you. Why do you have to be such a downhearted, despondent, dispirited, hate mongering killjoy all the time? Cheer up you depressing sack of sorrow and shit. Spirituality is unbounded, it is absolute, it is what connects us to the hope we dream. It guides us through dark, leads us through aversion and shelters us from storms of hurt. Konnie Huq, popular British television presenter, delineates and illustrates the ongoing contention between spirituality, freedom and popular culture. Her fantastically seductive ways fascinate and enthrall the viewer. The way she sold her velvet lined, soft centered, chicken madras flavoured soul to present The X-Factor embodies the ugliest of all that is imperfect.

Fuck you Konnie Huq. Let your skin singe and smolder in hell as you pay for your pop sins. Then return from Satan's lair with your renewed creativity, unrivaled flair and freshly burnt skin like a devil flavoured crispy bacon sandwich. Oh Konnie, remember Blue Peter? I do. I remember that fine piece of booty, so free in spirit, preparing innovative and revolutionary contraptions before mine very eyes. "Here's one I prepared earlier" you'd say, that spectral glint in your bewitching eyes. You'd pull out a novel creation from under that blue counter of constitution and production, designed to inject both utility and fun into the viewers life - oh how you'd pull out that earlier-prepared gizmo. You'd pull it out so good. Now look at you; working with Dermot 'The Spawn of Satan' O'Leary and Simon Cowell, a man who acts as if he's constantly stuck in the first 2 minutes of a 33 minute porno. And then there's Louis Walsh. Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Louis fucking Walsh. You, Louis fucking Walsh, are an impuissant, inadequate, bollocks deprived, testosterone deficient, spineless, nonessential waster. You're not funny. Your opinion is always wrong. Always. You don't even have the backbone to tell shit performers they're shit. If I was alone in a burning building with you, I'd stay in that building for an additional 30 seconds before escaping just so I could have the privacy and opportunity to beat you in your stupid fucking head. The cockeyed arrogance you display in exposing your futile personality to the world is quite frankly off the fucking charts. You are the reason, you are the cause, you are the toxic waste fueling pop culture. You are the consummate contrapositive of spirituality. Your soul is split. You are aimless and misguided. You are fake, your outright demeanor is repugnant and wretched.

Reclaim your soul Konnie. It's not too late, it's never too late. Unless you're Louis Walsh. Then it's always too late. Redemption is as beautiful as it is conciliating. Konnie Huq can currently be juxtaposed to a murderer. That's right, a stone cold, mindless, blood spilling killer. Sure, it's bad. It's definitely bad. Really bad, if anything. But, it's not too late - is it? No, no it isn't. Maybe Konnie murdered out of revenge, maybe the ravenous, animalistic murder was an accident. Who knows? Probably no-one; so to speculate would be wrong. The point is if she pulls something pretty fucking special out the bag, it's not too late for her. As a heartless, inhuman, remorseless executioner her pathway to redemption is narrow and stringent. Her first move must be without question to quit The X-Factor. Not just to quit, but to quit ruthlessly. An act of absolution is required here. She must jump kick a microphone through Louis Walsh's throat with the furious intensity of a thousand horses and then devour the corpse on live TV. Step 2 is crucial if she is to win back the hearts of her fans and the innocence of her soul. Following her violent reprieving act she must stand forth before all, stripped to the flesh, unashamed and she must proclaim in a deranged, war like scream "KONNIE HUQ HATH RETURNED! AS SURE AS MY BLOOD RUNS RED AND MY EYES SEE CLEAR, RELEASE MINE SOUL TO FREEDOM!" As her soul is restored in a blinding, supernal flash of light, she must initiate the 3rd step. To look into the camera lens with those resplendent, glistening eyes and remark, "this soul may not be perfect, but here's one I prepared earlier." The 4th and final step will be to tender a single, flirtatious wink before dancing on the spot, for all eternity. Welcome to freedom Konnie. You've earned it.

Friday, 26 November 2010

perspective is to the wiseman what olive oil is to jamie oliver

I whip my hair back and forth
I whip my hair back and forth (just whip it)
I whip my hair back and forth
I whip my hair back and forth (whip it real good)
I whip my hair back and forth
I whip my hair back and forth
I whip my hair back and forth
I whip my hair back and forth


Oh hey there Willow Smith! It's such an honour and a privilege to finally meet you! How are you? Oh great, yeah no I've been good thanks - I'm pretty tired because I've been working quite hard to save up money, I've got a wicked weekend ahead though so plenty to look forward to! Yeah I've heard it on the radio! I think I heard it 4 times on the radio today alone! You must be so thrilled... yeah... well it's great, it's perfectly fine, it's fantastic - I've got a suggestion perhaps for your next song if you really want to hear? Of course... it's so great that you care what the fans think! I just felt that instead of singing the same line over and over, to combat sounding repetitive, what you maybe could have done is SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Willow Smith was born on October 31st 2000. That, at the time of this blog makes her 10 years old. TEN years old. I get it Willow, I really do. You're saying you whip your hair back and forth. It's like letting your hair down, right? Having fun? Sure. Great. What isn't right is that you're trying to be SEXY aren't you? You're 10 and you're implying that you're a party animal. A sexy party animal. A sexy party animal that party's sexually and everything you do is sexual and sexy and seduces everything and everyone around you because you're so sexy. You and everything you represent sickens me to my cold, cynical, judgmental and currently repulsed core. When I was 10 I wasn't trying to be sexy, I didn't know how and I didn't pretend to know how. I was far too busy collecting Pogs and obsessing over what selection of Pokemon I'd have face the Elite 4. Globally, the human race is constantly united in fighting against Paedophilia. Children such as yourselves, Willow, that are trying to be sexy and seductive are not helping. You're undermining the good fight. You're ripping the great and good of human nature fragile limb from fragile limb. You're a paedophiliac cocktease and a terrorist. STOP it. Just stop it. Also, why whip your hair back and forth? That's so unnecessarily aggressive. Why can't you just have gentle, pallid fun? Why must you inject fear and danger into your fun having? All people want is to have a good time and you're ruining it for everyone. It's like playing Connect 4 with Atilla the Hun. It starts out innocent and righteous, things get playful, the wrong thing gets said and all of a sudden you've got a spear through your left lung.

A message for your brother and a moral for the pair of you. Jaden; you need to become cool again. Sharpish. Let's get the blindingly obvious out the way first and foremost, you have the single coolest Dad in the world. If you took a random poll asking people who their ideal coolest Dad would be, 78% would answer Will Smith. Not only is this an overwhelming majority, but it's also the same as the amount of nitrogen in the air we breathe. Nitrogen is cool. Coincidence? Shut the fuck up Jaden, I don't want your opinion. You need to grow up, you need to mature, you need to gain perspective of yourselves and the world around you before you attempt to follow in your parents footsteps. Or carry on the way you are, sell out. You'll excuse it as just 'having fun and experiencing life, journeying down avenues that so happen to be open to you.' More accurately, your Dad will excuse it as that, because he's that fucking awesome that he'll defend you no matter how much of a cretin you are. Have some class, some dignity - grow up, physically and mentally then show the world your beautifully crafted and talented Smith genes.

Wednesday, 24 November 2010

cupid has the wings of an angel, arrows of love and u.s military standard issue hand grenades

you can fall in love in a month


You can fall in love in a month, a week, a day, an hour, a minute, a second, a heartbeat. Not a year. If it's been a year, probably move on, try someone else - you can always come back later. Falling in love is tantamount to religion. If a priest fucked you as a child you're probably going to have issues about it later in life. There's no scientific proof for it, like religion. You can't take a sample of love, mix it with Rubidium, put it in a test tube over a bunsen burner for 5 minutes and write a dissertation about the ramifications of mixing love with varyingly hostile alkalis. That would be like holding an olympic ceremony for mermaids. Mermaids aren't real and there wasn't even a mermaid olympics, it just went straight to the ceremony, it's just a waste of time and resources. Besides, even if there was a mermaid olympics, how many different events would there actually be? Swimming is one event. ONE event. They can't do track and field, they'd be awful at it. They might aswell just tag along to the special olympics, at least the competitors would get a kick out of seeing some mermaids.

People are fascinated by the notion of falling in love. It is championed in every romantic film, advocated in every love story, idolised and sanctioned in every love song. It is drilled into our vulnerably absorbent minds with intense, burning, rushing rapture. It never ceases, it is unrelenting. It is no suprise that people are obsessed by falling in love when placed in this amity themed pressure cooker.

There can be no time scale on love. Who is to say when a painting is finished besides the artist themselves? No one. Anyone who rules the roost on a subjective matter is undermining their own attitude and displaying industrial portions of stupidity. The sort of swamp brained know nothing idiot that would bemoan the destructive nature of man whilst throwing an oil covered Cambodian child at a newly born polar bear, brushing their teeth with a petrol powered toothbrush.

Go ahead and fall in love in whatever amount of time you wish. Or be original and find an alternative; jump into non-hate, slide out of resentment or transpose to fondness.

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

wisdom is gift wrapped in perception and tracing paper

if you're going to point your fingers, make sure your hands are clean


The pinnacle of all things gracious and divine is beauty. Beauty makes life worth living. It makes the birds sing, the sun shine, the rivers flow and volcanos erupt. Without beauty, hope would abate, miracles would wither, temptation would wilt. Beauty is found in all that we see, smell, hear, taste and touch but in nothing is it found more in than balance. Balance is utterly and undeniably crucial to our existence. It is the explanation, the glue and the reason behind all that equates, that is to say; everything.

A hypocrite is like that one particularly fat kid that was in your school. You know the one I mean. Seriously fat, the sort of fat where the fatness is beyond fatness. It's like when a world record holding baker announces he's been baking a pie for the past 3 months. You know for damn sure that's going to be one outlandish monstrosity of a pie. You finally see this pie of preposterous pastry proportions and you think to yourself, "yeah. That's a pie right there. Not just a pie. That's beyond a pie. That's a 'for the love of all things savory' kind of pie. I am in awe of said pie." That level of fat. So fat it's like they had to eat more than excessive amounts of wholesome and delicious food to become so astonishingly whalesome. Like they went beyond food and started eating concepts and emotions. Maybe they ate the concept of sensory trajectory, albophobia and love. Maybe that's why it's called infatuation? Imagine this beastsome thunder bucket of a child walking into a playground and sitting on a see saw with a sweet, moderately weighted child on the other end. Just like the hypocrite, the over fed Snorlax causes unbalance. And what fun is to be had without balance? If a human becomes unbalanced significantly enough, they will literally vomit on the spot. Oh hey man, I feel like having some fun, shall we drink a couple pitchers, steal a car and go and throw frozen food at hookers? Nah, I think I'm just going to become unbalanced and force myself to vomit instead. How ridiculous. Very ridiculous. That's how ridiculous.

The point is thus: if you're going to point your fingers, make sure your hands are clean. Don't be a hypocrite, don't deny balance and rationality. In light of this thought/discussion/lecture I shall now coin a new phrase:

Wash your hands with metaphoric soap that is actually self awareness and acute realisation of the accuracy of your perception before you metaphorically point your unwashed fingers at someone by accusing them of a deed that you yourself could in return be accused of having done previously by someone with metaphorically clean hands and a valid reason for metaphorically pointing their clean fingers at you by accusing you of the deed previously mentioned.

Monday, 22 November 2010

the evolution of language

why do people feel the need to ruin the english languge soooo much by spelling words like 'later' l8r


Text speak is responsible for domestic violence, deforestation and mass suicides world wide. It is one of the worst things to happen to civilisation, let alone language. The premise of the concept itself is harmless, it's efficient and time saving. The brain dead, teeth sucking, ignorant douchebags intent on using this language are not harmless. They are ruining everything and they have already ruined what could have been an evolutionary phase for the English language. There would be no need for superheroes if these morons weren't so obnoxious to the beauty of the written word. But because of them, we do need superheroes. Lots of them. With weapons and a quite frankly unjustified hatred of people who don't write properly. Unless you're dyslexic, that's fine - I'm not a dyslexcist.

These droids of ignorance are also the reason for 'grammar nazis' - people who feel it is their God given destiny to protect language from the lazy, ignorant and stupid. Just how God supposedly exists to protect us from Satan. Satan in this scenario would be a text speaker. He would say things like 'bow 2 me, i am s8an. i luv hell, it is gr8.' God in this scenario would be a grammar nazi, he would say things like 'I am so sick and tired of you Satan. Didn't you go to school? Haven't you heard of grammar before? I doubt it. I am sick of you.'

Who the hell wants to bare witness to that back and forth? I don't. It's awful. Now imagine mortals having these terrible conversations. There's not even the intrigue of it being God and Satan anymore. The one benefit of text language being time efficient is rendered so unbefuckinglievably obsolete by the negative factors forcefully penetrated into this debate by the hollowed out, zombified masses that I want to punch a dictionary into a thesaurus and choke to death on the resulting dictathourus. Stupid people use text language. Ignorant people use text language. If you aren't stupid or ignorant, write properly. It's the written word, a man can read it and interpret it in whatever stupid voice he wants to, but for the love of freedom, architecture and late night poker write the words properly to begin with.

Sunday, 21 November 2010

a torrid tale of emphysema and misleading blog titles

Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: "It's not where you take things from - it's where you take them to."

-Jim Jarmusch