A Review Of The Use Of Numbers On tender[hooligan]

Do numbers matter to you? I mean they may not fill you with as much dread as the glorious letter Q or fill you with a deep sense of melancholy like a suicidal letter N, but they do matter. Without numbers how can I count the sorry days I’ve spent wasting oxygen on this rabid planet? Without numbers how can I tell you the amount of women that I’ve not been able to entice back to my bedroom with offers of numbers of cash? A world without numbers is like a knee without blood.

Numbers however do not matter to tender[hooligan]. Looking at this site it is obvious that tender[hooligan] feels about numbers the same way MikeTyson feels about a wacky student who tries to s**t in his boxing gloves right before a big fight.

These poor numbers are abused. They are apparently not worthy of sharing the colour black with their letter cousins. Instead they are forced to present themselves to the world in a washed out faded grey. It is like George Clooney asking his excited new girlfriend to attend the Oscars with him and then informing her that she can only go if she wears a false beard, a dress made of scrotum and some herring glued to her feet. It is a cruel presentation. If Einstein could see what was being done to his beautiful numbers I suspect he would stick his nose in a toaster and cook it to a crumbling black crisp.

With tears streaming down my face I try to find further evidence of crimes against numbers and I am reviled to find a case of the number 130000 being scored out and suffering the indignity of being replaced with a smaller number. That’s right. A number with a line struck right through it like a samurai sword impaling a once proud camel. Turning number against number. I am so numb that I literally cannot feel my own hair. I cannot watch any more and hurl myself to the floor. I have to crawl through the grime and empty bottles of vodka to unplug my laptop and wait patiently for the battery to die and thus end my witness to this torture.

Refreshingly Dishonest? Not David.

Not all honesty can be rewarded. The Glorious Mister Bamford is a case in point. I wonder how many of his perverted brethren lurk in this heinous hovel.

Also, a note for the future. I will not be adding links under the Reviewed section any longer. It is a waste of my time and you do not f*****g deserve the effort. I am undecided as to whether or not to become a reciprocal linking whore.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Please tell me why anyone would ever choose to use the word “that’s” as the penultimate word on a blog post. Why?! Why?! Why?! Today of all days. Why?! It is like going to a funeral dressed up as a gay swan.

The Great Global Warming Myth Debunked In A Few Words

Eco-economics is not a word one ever hopes to see when one clicks the magical/terrible “NEXT BLOG” button. To use it is a sin against both language and the very eyes in my head. It sounds even worse, as though it were coming from the mouth of a distressed stammering dolphin trying in vain to explain to a simpleton fisherman’s son that he is not just a big tuna and should be cut loose from the net immediately. We’ll let that go however and discuss this blog. We seem to be in some strange Tolkienesque fantasy world where the talk of global warming is given credence by odd little creatures with dirty feet (have you ever met a ‘Save The Earth Type’ with clean feet?).

Let me tell the author this: There was a day in 1896 (or thereabouts) that was hotter than any days that have happened recently. Do you see how I just defeated science there? It was hotter on a day back then ergo global warming is a myth. So-called scienctific evidence torn to shreds in seconds by an infallible argument. There is only one scientist and He is atop His great cloud in space, stroking His white beard, rewarding His children with some nice f*****g weather.

Bleeding And Needing Stitches

I don’t need to tell you why, do I? I don’t need to tell you why looking at this website here caused me to collapse and smash my head off the corner of a marble coffee table, do I? I don’t need to tell you that staggering around my house, naked, concussed, salivating, screaming and looking for a thread and needle with which to mend my ruptured head with felt better than looking at the aforementioned monstrosity, do I? If I do need to tell you these things then you are without salvation and may you fester in the squalor of your own ignorance you dirty f***s.

Oh, Bill Says, Does He?

I knew after a mere solitary second of reading Bill’s”review” of Aurora Borealis that I had to see this movie. Not because Bill had recommended it (I have no idea if he/she did or not, I fell asleep halfway through reading his/her foul prose) but because I knew after the choice of words he/she used in that opening sentence that this was a man/lady who was not capable of being correct about anything that required the use of a mind. The words he/she used were “For”, “many”, “so”, “people”, “is”, “the”, “dominant”, “family”, “factor”, “life” and ”in”. I have rearranged the insipid words obviously so as not to distress you but the more acute among you have probably figured it out (much to your pain and anguish, I am sure).

I wanted to see the movie so that I could write him/she a wonderful letter about how tragically mistaken every single one of her/his opinions were. I would have written it on the finest paper with my finest ink and used my finest quill.

Unfortunately, whilst inside the cinema complex, having already purchased my ticket, I overheard a young girl, who was eating a diseased hot-dog, express her love for the Pirates of the Caribbean series. I was so disgusted by this that I simply couldn’t help myself from vomiting over her arms and was promptly beaten to within an inch of my life by her neanderthal mother.

Still, if you need a view on it, simply invert every one of Bill’s rancid observations.

Some Machine’s Comedy Is Weak

This attempt to satirise the whole embryo and stem cell research issue from the author of Some Machine fails on a cataclysmic level.

As for the rest of the blog? We see a post about a misguided family patronising their mentally disabled son by lauding him for being able to throw a tangerine further than a small child. Then we read a post about how the author sat in vile, complicit silence whilst an old man was wrongly accused of rape by a teenage girl. Hideous, hideous blog.

Through The Seasons Before Us Review

I click on a blog titled Through The Seasons Before Us. Those words combined in such a hideous fashion do not mean anything to me. Is that perhaps because they don’t actually make any f*cking sense? Just a theory. They are a collection of words that need to be dealt the same fate as a lame horse. But I do not ever blame the words. They are powerless to defend themselves against their abusers.

I see on the blog header that there are pictures of smiling young men in some sort of red sports uniform. On the left we see a tanned homosexual, frozen still in some sort of camp posture. The message is clear; If you are a gay man and enjoy looking at young athletes then this is just the place to do it.

I scroll down the page and see a collection of gratuitous photographs of young men in tight shorts. My revilement is hard to bear as I imagine the sexual gratification that these aging voyeurs will be achieving from the photographs- perhaps at that very moment in some moist Greenwich Village hovel. I feel dirty and unclean, as though I am somehow connected to this debase community of self-abusing athlete gawkers. I go to the bathroom to wash but am unable to prevent a jet of vomit from scorching my throat.

I cannot return to my computer. I cannot look at those fit young men for a second longer. I call a taxi company and make an unusual request. I ask that they send a driver to my front door. When he arrives, I offer to give him two bottles of fine red wine if he will only click the HOMEPAGE button in my web browser and protect me from guilt by association. He agrees but makes me suffer the embarrassment that is his conversation. The five minutes he spends in my home feel like an eternity in the intestines of Hell.

Billy’s Rating: Artistic Technique – 3/61 Effectiveness – 12/34

Interested?

How often blog prose simply begs for a scathing response. In the most recent post at the distasteful Sparks Team Blog, we are told that they have provided links to some supposed information about Microsoft’s latest operating system (how I resent them for making me utter such tedious words). They inform us that they have provided these “links” for those of you who are interested.

I’m quite sure there are some you who are interested. In fact I dare say that there are many of you. I, however, would rather be boiled in a vat of my own fecal matter than be an individual who clicks links about an operating system. And why should I even believe that this is not what is actually on the other side of those “links”? Strung-out junkie whores, splashing around in baths of warm, donated sh*t.

Of course, that hideous notion is really just a wild guess on my part but operating system or human filth baths, I suspect those who are interested in clicking those links will see the new page load up and masturbate themselves into a foaming-mouthed frenzy either way. 

Volver Review And Borat Too

I go to the cinema that I believe to be the quietest in the whole city. If I could afford to buy every seat in the cinema and sit alone, I would. I cannot stand to see the skin and bones of my kind dotted around me when I am experiencing art.

Before I enter the building I see a poster for Volver, by Pedro Almodovar, the movie I intend to go and inhale. The poster is primarily a headshot of Penelope Cruz. I stop and look into her dark eyes. As the rain makes a cruel mockery of my thinning hair, I feel a sadness well up in me. A deep, profound, unbearable sadness. I suffer this way because I know that no woman that could ever love me will make me feel the desire and unconditional love that I experience when I look into Penelope Cruz’s incredible eyes- nay, a grotesque, glossy paper imitation of her eyes.

I feel myself well up and I know that if just looking at her poster for five seconds brings on this intense melancholy then watching her heavenly flicker for two hours would leave me suicidal and unable to remove myself from my cinema seat. Another violent ejection by unsympathetic security staff would be the only thing that could stop me from sitting there until my pitiful, lonely death.

I know that to see Volver would be dangerous and reckless and so I instead go to see Borat. There, I weep for the laughing, screaming skin and bone around me who cannot see that, behind the clown with the moustache, they are watching some of the most savage acts of brutality ever commited by man or beast.