Soup.
Just in case you want to eat your favourite food, but find solid matter too distressing. And even then, you don't want it fully liquified. No, you want it to be the consistency of a recently churned stomach, which was then emptied into a bowl of boiling water.
And most of the time, the soup tastes nothing like what it is meant to. With the exception of tomato soup, because that's not actually that bad. Chicken soup, however, is the worst. It's like someone thought "you know what's my favourite food? Chicken! But solids are a challenge for me right now...". Hence, we have that dull, grey liquid that people call chicken soup. Sometimes there are bubbles, almost as if the chicken is still alive and breathing, ready to reform itself like Terminator 2.
And it doesn't even taste of chicken! Or if it does, it's no chicken like what I've ever tasted.
The range of soup is also baffling. For a vague attempt at research, I strolled into Morrisons. Chicken, Tomato, Mushroom. Standard. Then it gets weird.
The fuck is "cream of tomato"?
Heinz obviously have no idea what a tomato is, because I've eaten tomatoes, and I've never seen anything that be remotely described as cream come out. Same with mushrooms! And as for chickens, it just sounds like they get a male chicken and wank it off into a tin like the cock that it is, milking it dry until a can is full of chicken semen.
Soup.
Friday 16 January 2015
Thursday 15 January 2015
Mini-Rant: Referencing
I find it difficult to believe that this is necessary.
This is the "art" of writing everything you've mentioned in a vaguely structured format -- which seems to change with every damn thing you write -- twice, each in a different style. Stick to one dammit. We surely don't need to write titles, authors, and dates twice.
Referencing will lead to the end of days.
Think about it, yeah. That bibliography is an extra page, two pages tacked on the end of every essay or academic book. Print those essays, sell a fuck-ton of those books, you're killing trees at a phenomenal rate. That extra page makes all the difference. Harvard and the MLA (Modern Language Association) are destroying the Amazon Rainforest with their bizarre fetish for writing things in an vaguely unnecessary and time-consuming format.
Eventually, the Amazon Rainforest will be destroyed by these extra pages, and more trees will be purged by paper-hungry scholars and academics, leading to less plants, meaning less photosynthesis in the world. Countries will die as oxygen runs out. Birds fall from the sky, dead rats infest cities and humans begin to perish. Asthmatics are the first to go, followed by the smokers. Soon, cities fall to a lack of oxygen; we are destroying trees faster than we can plant them. As time goes on, secondary research grows in both quantity and usage, meaning bibliographies outweigh the essays now. Entire countries, continents are left without oxygen, leading to the death of all wildlife. Humanity is the final species to fall and, as the final man (or woman #equality) at Harvard or the MLA has a slow, painful death, they realise that it is their doing that caused the End of Everything, haunting their final moments before everything goes dark. Dragged into the blistering fires of hell, this academic is forever burning, forever tortured for his crimes against existence itself.
And, as Earth lies a barren wasteland of a world, the only solace anyone can grasp is that they are dead, and not having to survive in a wilderness of desperation.
Referencing.
This is the "art" of writing everything you've mentioned in a vaguely structured format -- which seems to change with every damn thing you write -- twice, each in a different style. Stick to one dammit. We surely don't need to write titles, authors, and dates twice.
Referencing will lead to the end of days.
Think about it, yeah. That bibliography is an extra page, two pages tacked on the end of every essay or academic book. Print those essays, sell a fuck-ton of those books, you're killing trees at a phenomenal rate. That extra page makes all the difference. Harvard and the MLA (Modern Language Association) are destroying the Amazon Rainforest with their bizarre fetish for writing things in an vaguely unnecessary and time-consuming format.
Eventually, the Amazon Rainforest will be destroyed by these extra pages, and more trees will be purged by paper-hungry scholars and academics, leading to less plants, meaning less photosynthesis in the world. Countries will die as oxygen runs out. Birds fall from the sky, dead rats infest cities and humans begin to perish. Asthmatics are the first to go, followed by the smokers. Soon, cities fall to a lack of oxygen; we are destroying trees faster than we can plant them. As time goes on, secondary research grows in both quantity and usage, meaning bibliographies outweigh the essays now. Entire countries, continents are left without oxygen, leading to the death of all wildlife. Humanity is the final species to fall and, as the final man (or woman #equality) at Harvard or the MLA has a slow, painful death, they realise that it is their doing that caused the End of Everything, haunting their final moments before everything goes dark. Dragged into the blistering fires of hell, this academic is forever burning, forever tortured for his crimes against existence itself.
And, as Earth lies a barren wasteland of a world, the only solace anyone can grasp is that they are dead, and not having to survive in a wilderness of desperation.
Referencing.
Mini-Rant: Buses
I take issues with buses.
Not the general concept, that seems fine; everyone gets on, pays a small fee and gets transported to a strange and far-away land like some public-transport version of the Wardrobe that leads to Narnia.
Unfortunately, this vision of how buses should be is not one shared by the Incubus known as Stagecoach. And no, I don't think Incubus is too grandiose or harsh a description; they seduce you with promises that are too good to be true, then turn around and fuck you in the arse, ultimately leaving you in a vague state of disappointment.
But, of course, it's not just the idea of buses which piss me off. No, it's the drivers, who in their ignorance don't even know the route, telling you "the bus does not go there" even though you got the bus from there earlier that day.There's nothing funny about that, it's just my truth.
And then there are the passengers. Some people are lovely, and just mind their own business. But when you're tightly cramped in like a dwarf at an anal orgy, it's hard not to find offense with everything. The smell of the poor, the stench of the old, and the cologne of that twat who thinks that the overwhelming pong of Calvin Klein can get him women, when his personality is evidently not working out for him. There's the fucker at the back, blaring his shit music like a retarded, and usually racist, Siren, trying to lure sailors to the back of the bus despite being a total cunt.
Buses.
Not the general concept, that seems fine; everyone gets on, pays a small fee and gets transported to a strange and far-away land like some public-transport version of the Wardrobe that leads to Narnia.
Unfortunately, this vision of how buses should be is not one shared by the Incubus known as Stagecoach. And no, I don't think Incubus is too grandiose or harsh a description; they seduce you with promises that are too good to be true, then turn around and fuck you in the arse, ultimately leaving you in a vague state of disappointment.
But, of course, it's not just the idea of buses which piss me off. No, it's the drivers, who in their ignorance don't even know the route, telling you "the bus does not go there" even though you got the bus from there earlier that day.There's nothing funny about that, it's just my truth.
And then there are the passengers. Some people are lovely, and just mind their own business. But when you're tightly cramped in like a dwarf at an anal orgy, it's hard not to find offense with everything. The smell of the poor, the stench of the old, and the cologne of that twat who thinks that the overwhelming pong of Calvin Klein can get him women, when his personality is evidently not working out for him. There's the fucker at the back, blaring his shit music like a retarded, and usually racist, Siren, trying to lure sailors to the back of the bus despite being a total cunt.
Buses.
Wednesday 14 January 2015
Mini-Rant: Fruit Marketing
Fruit marketing.
"An apple a day, keeps the doctor away".
"Carrots will make you see in the dark".
Wow...
An endless wonder awaits the child that believes this shallow marketing scam of fruit merchants across the land. Strange orange sticks which illuminate a whole new realm to them in the dead of night... or so they'd expect. And so they wake in the night, perpetually frightened that the darkness that they see has consumed all light and everything and everyone they'd ever known, for they can see nothing else. The carrots lied. Parents lied. The Grocer lied...
And the whole "apple a day, doctor away" thing. How on earth does that work? Can an apple heal a broken leg? You'd better hope so, because the doctor is warded away for an entire 24 hours after you've eaten one.
Take this for an example: you wake at night, and go downstairs to have a midnight apple, because you're a sane and normal individual. You don't turn on lights; you don't need them, the carrots have you sorted! And so you devour the apple, including the core because you're a sane and normal individual! You work your way back upstairs -- but oh no! What is this madness? You trip, falling back down, tumbling and cracking as you do so. With broken fingers you dial "999", leaving a bloody smear over the touchscreen -- that stain won't come off. Paramedics arrive, bundle you into the ambulance and whiz you to the hospital.
You arrive at the hospital, and the paramedics dump you in a bed. The doctor consults with them, before coming over to see you. But, as he grows close, he is repelled by a sphere of green, or sometimes red, energy. Pulling himself back up, he tries to examine you again, but is this time thrown across the room. And it is here where you realise that an apple a day truly does keep the doctor away.
And as you lay dying of possible internal bleeding, you now truly appreciate the web of lies which society has forced us to believe. Eventually, at night, you can see lights, flickering. Rejoicing in the idea that the carrots have finally enabled you to see truly in the dark, you fail to realise that you are, in fact, in the depths of Hades and are now dead.
Fruit Marketing.
"An apple a day, keeps the doctor away".
"Carrots will make you see in the dark".
Wow...
An endless wonder awaits the child that believes this shallow marketing scam of fruit merchants across the land. Strange orange sticks which illuminate a whole new realm to them in the dead of night... or so they'd expect. And so they wake in the night, perpetually frightened that the darkness that they see has consumed all light and everything and everyone they'd ever known, for they can see nothing else. The carrots lied. Parents lied. The Grocer lied...
And the whole "apple a day, doctor away" thing. How on earth does that work? Can an apple heal a broken leg? You'd better hope so, because the doctor is warded away for an entire 24 hours after you've eaten one.
Take this for an example: you wake at night, and go downstairs to have a midnight apple, because you're a sane and normal individual. You don't turn on lights; you don't need them, the carrots have you sorted! And so you devour the apple, including the core because you're a sane and normal individual! You work your way back upstairs -- but oh no! What is this madness? You trip, falling back down, tumbling and cracking as you do so. With broken fingers you dial "999", leaving a bloody smear over the touchscreen -- that stain won't come off. Paramedics arrive, bundle you into the ambulance and whiz you to the hospital.
You arrive at the hospital, and the paramedics dump you in a bed. The doctor consults with them, before coming over to see you. But, as he grows close, he is repelled by a sphere of green, or sometimes red, energy. Pulling himself back up, he tries to examine you again, but is this time thrown across the room. And it is here where you realise that an apple a day truly does keep the doctor away.
And as you lay dying of possible internal bleeding, you now truly appreciate the web of lies which society has forced us to believe. Eventually, at night, you can see lights, flickering. Rejoicing in the idea that the carrots have finally enabled you to see truly in the dark, you fail to realise that you are, in fact, in the depths of Hades and are now dead.
Fruit Marketing.
Weekly Mini-Rants: Rolf Harris
*A very mini-rant this time, as it's not technically "weekly"*
Rolf Harris.
What a twat.
Now, I'm not going to go into too much detail about his crimes, because they were terrible, and quite frankly, have no place on this blog.
No, they didn't inconvenience me one bit.
What did inconvenience me was the media coverage.
For fuck sake, call him "Rolf".
It's not hard to do.
Instead they extensively called him "Mr Harris". This caused too many terrified turns to the TV when I thought, however briefly, that were talking about me. It was even worse when father wasn't there, and they were saying "Mr Harris has been arrested on sex charges". I knew he was weird, but I never expected that...
Mr Harris has to be more common than Rolf, surely. So what was the point? Although, I imagine that if a presenter had to say "Rolf" over and over, they would sound like a choking dog whenever they did. However, "Mr Harris" made them bitches anyway, so it made no fucking difference.
Essentially, I'm saying that if Rolf wasn't a kiddy-fiddler, then newsreaders wouldn't be dicks.
Rolf Harris.
What a twat.
Now, I'm not going to go into too much detail about his crimes, because they were terrible, and quite frankly, have no place on this blog.
No, they didn't inconvenience me one bit.
What did inconvenience me was the media coverage.
For fuck sake, call him "Rolf".
It's not hard to do.
Instead they extensively called him "Mr Harris". This caused too many terrified turns to the TV when I thought, however briefly, that were talking about me. It was even worse when father wasn't there, and they were saying "Mr Harris has been arrested on sex charges". I knew he was weird, but I never expected that...
Mr Harris has to be more common than Rolf, surely. So what was the point? Although, I imagine that if a presenter had to say "Rolf" over and over, they would sound like a choking dog whenever they did. However, "Mr Harris" made them bitches anyway, so it made no fucking difference.
Essentially, I'm saying that if Rolf wasn't a kiddy-fiddler, then newsreaders wouldn't be dicks.
Monday 12 January 2015
Random Mini-Rant: New Year's Resolutions
"New Year, New Me!"
Fuck off.
You're still gonna be the same pretentious prick you always have been, except for the fact that you'll weigh slightly less for the first week of January. In fact, you won't, because in that single week where you stick to your "New Year, New Me" diet, all you'll be doing is burning off some of the calories you gained while gorging yourself stupid at Christmas.
Another common New Year's resolution is to "Drink Less Alcohol". And that is what January's Dryathalon is for. And only January. February the first, or should I say "thirst", you go for a drink to celebrate that you accomplished Dryathalon and get royally pissed, shattering your resolution.
Why do we make resolutions we can't stick to? Maybe we should just choose "My New Year's Resolution is to not live in 2014 anymore", at least that's achievable until H.G.Wells brings his time machine into our lives, piloting it through time and space, trying to escape that dystopian future with the weird crab things.
Maybe instead of making Resolutions, we should make some other strange and unnecessary tradition, but perhaps one that we can accomplish. Perhaps, instead of the Resolution, which will always lead to depression and failure, we should do something more attainable such as an en mass sex-change every year.
While I'm not quite at home with losing my penis every other year, I would be pleased with the fact that I wouldn't have to change my abbreviated name, Chris. But, this gender swapping would also be somewhat more beneficial than the Resolutions, as you would have to stick with it, and it would certainly open you to new possibilities.
Then you could certainly say "New Year, New Me" without people thinking you're a cunt.
(Topic suggested by Courtney Anne)
Fuck off.
You're still gonna be the same pretentious prick you always have been, except for the fact that you'll weigh slightly less for the first week of January. In fact, you won't, because in that single week where you stick to your "New Year, New Me" diet, all you'll be doing is burning off some of the calories you gained while gorging yourself stupid at Christmas.
Another common New Year's resolution is to "Drink Less Alcohol". And that is what January's Dryathalon is for. And only January. February the first, or should I say "thirst", you go for a drink to celebrate that you accomplished Dryathalon and get royally pissed, shattering your resolution.
Why do we make resolutions we can't stick to? Maybe we should just choose "My New Year's Resolution is to not live in 2014 anymore", at least that's achievable until H.G.Wells brings his time machine into our lives, piloting it through time and space, trying to escape that dystopian future with the weird crab things.
Maybe instead of making Resolutions, we should make some other strange and unnecessary tradition, but perhaps one that we can accomplish. Perhaps, instead of the Resolution, which will always lead to depression and failure, we should do something more attainable such as an en mass sex-change every year.
While I'm not quite at home with losing my penis every other year, I would be pleased with the fact that I wouldn't have to change my abbreviated name, Chris. But, this gender swapping would also be somewhat more beneficial than the Resolutions, as you would have to stick with it, and it would certainly open you to new possibilities.
Then you could certainly say "New Year, New Me" without people thinking you're a cunt.
(Topic suggested by Courtney Anne)
Tuesday 6 January 2015
Random Mini-Rant: Shopping Trolleys
I have an issue with Shopping Trolleys.
"An" issue.
Yes, this really is just a singular thing, but it is essential to the working of the trolley. No, it is not the fact that I am forced to delve into what Tesco presumes is a bottomless pit of one- pound coins just to use one of the damn things, meaning that that packet of crisps remains beyond reach for another week. And no, this is not about the three different sizes of trolley I am forced to choose from, each seeming to be simultaneously more useful and less useful than the last.
No, this is a much bigger issue, and it all relates to walking.
I like to walk about. Walking, you build up speed until you reach a maximum velocity...and you slow again, until you reach a nice steady pace.
Not with a shopping trolley, oh no.
I'm walking with one of these things -- pushing it, not just striding alongside it, asking it about its holiday to Waitrose like some bizarre hairdresser -- and I feel my legs getting faster without me realising it. It is then I realise; the trolley has taken over. It drags me through the aisles, I push with one hand, and shove the products in with the other, shoveling food into the trolley as if it was a metallic Eric Pickles. I'm getting faster all the time, and I feel fine; none of the panting, sweating or tiredness of the standard fast walk.
And this is where it all goes wrong.
You don't slow down again.
Oh, you can stop, but why would you ever need to stop in any supermarket? You know what you're there for, you buy the same things week-after-week, that's how it works. SO you speed up, and speed up. Aisles are a blur, your shoes are smoking, feet burning, but no fatigue. The trolley takes care of that. You lean into the trolley and time slows down around you, like you're in a Michael Bay film. But you don't turn to look, just in case you are, and you run and run and run and run. Boom. Sound barrier broken. People are thrown back, products shattering and breaking.
Whoosh.
You blink and the supermarket is there no longer. Instead, you seem to be in ancient Greece, surrounded by the class of Plato; you broke light speed and travelled back in time. For some reason, you gain the ancient Greek language and explain to them their situation. Oh, you think this could be good? Oh no. They are millenia away from the shopping trolley! But not anymore, I've given them the trolley now. "Tesco" becomes like a new messiah, and the first store is opened over 2000 years earlier.
This may seem like a good idea, but it really isn't. Think about it. Time travel. They've got all the tech I'd have on me. Granted, they're probably only a decade or so from making my shit phone anyway, but now they have the tools to make it earlier! They have an early industrial revolution, two thousand years earlier! But this doesn't matter, because with this technology, weapons follow. Spartans with AK-47s attack the shores of Athens, who defend with organised drone strikes on Sparta, reducing it to rubble.
And finally, as the world descends into a militarised chaos-pit, 1066 rolls around. The Battle of Hastings, the war of kings. Fought with swords, sheilds, arrows and nuclear warheads.
With Shopping Trolleys remaining how they are, the world will be obliterated by William of Normandy in the year 1066. While some could argue that as a positive -- probably depressed emo kids with delusions of how they'd be better at dying than they are at living --, I don't think it would be, because I would never have been born to start all of this palava, leading to a paradox that creates a rift in space-time which swallows up everything that ever was, and ever will be.
And that is my issue with shopping trolleys.
"An" issue.
Yes, this really is just a singular thing, but it is essential to the working of the trolley. No, it is not the fact that I am forced to delve into what Tesco presumes is a bottomless pit of one- pound coins just to use one of the damn things, meaning that that packet of crisps remains beyond reach for another week. And no, this is not about the three different sizes of trolley I am forced to choose from, each seeming to be simultaneously more useful and less useful than the last.
No, this is a much bigger issue, and it all relates to walking.
I like to walk about. Walking, you build up speed until you reach a maximum velocity...and you slow again, until you reach a nice steady pace.
Not with a shopping trolley, oh no.
I'm walking with one of these things -- pushing it, not just striding alongside it, asking it about its holiday to Waitrose like some bizarre hairdresser -- and I feel my legs getting faster without me realising it. It is then I realise; the trolley has taken over. It drags me through the aisles, I push with one hand, and shove the products in with the other, shoveling food into the trolley as if it was a metallic Eric Pickles. I'm getting faster all the time, and I feel fine; none of the panting, sweating or tiredness of the standard fast walk.
And this is where it all goes wrong.
You don't slow down again.
Oh, you can stop, but why would you ever need to stop in any supermarket? You know what you're there for, you buy the same things week-after-week, that's how it works. SO you speed up, and speed up. Aisles are a blur, your shoes are smoking, feet burning, but no fatigue. The trolley takes care of that. You lean into the trolley and time slows down around you, like you're in a Michael Bay film. But you don't turn to look, just in case you are, and you run and run and run and run. Boom. Sound barrier broken. People are thrown back, products shattering and breaking.
Whoosh.
You blink and the supermarket is there no longer. Instead, you seem to be in ancient Greece, surrounded by the class of Plato; you broke light speed and travelled back in time. For some reason, you gain the ancient Greek language and explain to them their situation. Oh, you think this could be good? Oh no. They are millenia away from the shopping trolley! But not anymore, I've given them the trolley now. "Tesco" becomes like a new messiah, and the first store is opened over 2000 years earlier.
This may seem like a good idea, but it really isn't. Think about it. Time travel. They've got all the tech I'd have on me. Granted, they're probably only a decade or so from making my shit phone anyway, but now they have the tools to make it earlier! They have an early industrial revolution, two thousand years earlier! But this doesn't matter, because with this technology, weapons follow. Spartans with AK-47s attack the shores of Athens, who defend with organised drone strikes on Sparta, reducing it to rubble.
And finally, as the world descends into a militarised chaos-pit, 1066 rolls around. The Battle of Hastings, the war of kings. Fought with swords, sheilds, arrows and nuclear warheads.
With Shopping Trolleys remaining how they are, the world will be obliterated by William of Normandy in the year 1066. While some could argue that as a positive -- probably depressed emo kids with delusions of how they'd be better at dying than they are at living --, I don't think it would be, because I would never have been born to start all of this palava, leading to a paradox that creates a rift in space-time which swallows up everything that ever was, and ever will be.
And that is my issue with shopping trolleys.
Thursday 1 January 2015
Random Mini-Rant: Pret a Manger
Ah,
Pret. Very nice place “manger”.
First
thing's first, is the pretentiousness of the whole thing. It sells a
collection of overpriced food to the middle-classes, using the classy
“French” title to lure the poor suckers in. Although, we're led
to assume that the title translates as “ready to eat”, which is
something else I'd like to question about this restaurant; why, if
I'm ready to eat, do you think I would want to spend 15 minutes of my
life reading a description of a fucking sandwich?! And, dismissing
that, shouldn't the name have a question mark? “Are you Pret a
Manger?” No. It's just Pret a Manger. It is telling me I'm ready to
eat. If I wanted to be told I was “Pret a Manger”, I'd go to
France and starve. In England, I want to be told “Ready to Eat”.
Does Pret a Manger have stores in France called “Ready to Eat”?
No! Because apparently, knowing French means you're cultured. Why, if
I want a sammich, do I have to be cultured?
And, staying on the name, “Pret” does not just mean ready. It can
mean “loan” or “price” when interpreted as a noun according
to Google Translate. Whether this is correct or not doesn't bother
me, it backs up my point and it relevant with their prices; you'll
need a payday loan just for a Sandwich, don't even get me started on
the soup or wraps. It's like Wonga was saying “Hey, we're sick of
just having lower classes in here.” And Pret replying “Our
sammiches can help you there..."
And I could forgive this, I really could, if it was good food. But
it's not. Or if it was in some way French. It might be, I suppose, I
don't know French food. There's no frog, I mean. But the combinations
are just bizarre. And yes, I'm focusing on the sandwiches. Some, I
admit, are great. All-Day Breakfast, Beech Smoked BLT, oh yes. Egg
and Tomato on Rye? Noooo. Not for me. I mean, how do you get those
tastes to blend? Do you have to eat each ingredient at a time like a
three-course meal? They sell Wild Crayfish in their sandwiches! Let
me tell you, Pret, when I want to manger some crayfish, I don't want
it wild. Dead, or at least dazed, would be preferred. But wild?! My
god, I get what they mean, but use a better word, one that doesn't
have connotations of needless violence!
I'd rather not have to get a wonga pret just to manger an attacking
sandwich in a pretentious restaurant.
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