Nails was fan-friggin-tastic. Trent Reznor is a genius. The music, the light show, absolutely everything was great. I wish I had an ounce of the talent that man has….And lack of anger and overload of happiness will make this post a very short one as I just have precious little to complain about. But here goes:
Tall people should die.
People with piercing, annoying voices should shut the fuck up at concerts on risk of having their lips stapled shut.
Also, fat people are funny.
then why haven’t they discovered the gene that makes women such bloody infuriatingly fussy and difficult creatures?? Obviously it can’t be that hard to find, since both males and females are human and genetically quite a lot alike. Take a man, take a woman, find the difference and then find out how to make it go away. I don’t care if we have to crossbreed with sheep* (although, if that would work we would probably have seen quite a few alternative kebab-shops by now) but this madness has got to end. Women are making my life so goddamn difficult with their ability to conjure up problems out of thin air and then expecting you to solve non-existing problems. We -can’t-. We are -practical-. We don’t spend energy in solving something that doesn’t need a bloody solution. Especially when said energy can be used in order to procure booze, nookie or preferably, a combination of the two. Although not the common combination of getting a girl tanked up in order to shag her. Bloody waste of alcohol of you ask my opinion. Most girls are either insecure or stupid enough that even the dumbest Neanderthal will be able to “get lucky” as it were. Or actually, in my experience the bigger the forehead and the more protruding the jaw, the easier it is to get girls. Probably this also goes for women, but I have yet to try those.
I have no idea what set me off on this, but you can bet there will be a sequel. Bloody fucking women.
* Incidentally, there’s an awesome movie coming out called Black Sheep. I haven’t seen it yet, but it must be bloody great going by the trailer. I suggest you all watch it to find out.
a professional comedian entertain an audience by making jokes equivalent to a five year old saying “poopie“. Apparently this is funny. Oh, and he had some shit to say about stereotypes. No, make that “stereotypical things to say about stereotypes”. Things so old, obvious and -not- funny that I think part of his repertoire was written by <insert name of a person you think is very, very dumb-. And when he finally does make a genuinely funny joke, he goes and milk it for much, much too long.
Ah well, maybe some of you who read this will enjoy it. Not.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m all for time. Human concept, makes our lives and society run a whole lot smoother, makes people more aware of their mortality: great bloody thing. But when restaurants at the bloody train station hang up clocks, I damn well expect them to tell the time the station uses. How else do you expect people to have a quick munch before their trip and still manage to catch their train? It’s a bloody obvious thing that to people at those restaurants the “actual time” (there’s no such thing people, but it’s a lovely concept all the same) isn’t relevant at all. They want to know when their train leaves. As simple as that. Anyway, long story short: I’m spending the night on a friend’s couch tonight.
Also, don’t get me started on fast food in this bloody country. I could’ve bred two cows, raised a young, raised whatever ingredients I needed to make bread and lettuce and onions and all that shite, killed the young and made a damn burger in the time it takes one of these fast food restaurants. Bloody fantastic.
Or even -more- accurately, the concept of those few people that, while surfing the net, have, probably mistakenly, ended up on my blog that exists in my head. Meta-physicists rejoice, I believe everything you do and write and it doesn’t make any difference whatsoever, because truth is arbitrary. And yes this blog is going to be -very- random, with most of it consisting of a) me being an ass, b) me ranting about stuff and being an ass or c) me ranting about stuff, being an ass, but trying to get a valid (arbitrary again) point across. If you end up reading this blog often, go ahead and pat yourself on the back: you’re probably intelligent.
Also, while it’s the inside that counts, I very much feel like fiddling with the look of this thing so it will probably change somewhat over the next few days/weeks (which of the two depends on how quickly I figure out what I want and how to do it).
Still here? It ain’t gonna get more interesting than this. Not now at least.
Peace out.
