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

My Angry Fire Has Been Stoked.

I doubt if any other piece of writing has ever made me feel this angry and upset. Best to simply let you read it as I am barely able to function as a writer at the moment due to my having to mop up the crimson drops falling on to the floor from my bleeding eyes.

LATE EDIT: If you have clicked the above link you will see that  Grace Upon Grace have been smart enough to take heed of Billy Mouth’s words and remove the offending post. In case you missed it, the post was one single sentence about how the author used to hate oatmeal but now actually likes it.  Insidious

Sparks Team Blog Responds

Sparks Team have responded to my excellent review of their Windows Vista: Road To Gold post on their website and I am only too willing to grant them this platform to share that response.

Sparks Member Nov 6th, 2006 at 11:22 pm

“distasteful Sparks Team Blog,”
Thats right. We really must be terribly distasteful to attract ‘people’ like you to our blog.

“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.”

You should not. We have indeed Strung-out Junkie whores on the other side. I am sure you were checking them out all afternoon.

“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.”

Yup. Now I know at least one person who was TRYING to do that and I can see why are you so pissed off. I am sorry our junkie whores could not get anything better out of you.

I applaud the riposte and can only wonder how it is that they know me so very, very well.

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.

I + V + I = M, APPARENTLY.

I find myself looking at the iVideoit page. I laugh my eyes dry when I see that this “person” is attempting to review. Why? Another opinion that isn’t the one that counts seems strangely hilarious when my blood is full of vodka and painkillers. However, when I look at the top left of the page I stop laughing so quickly that I almost choke to death on my veal and walnut souffle.

The deplorable use of font has destroyed any shreds of credibility that Miss iVideo could ever wish to have with Billy Mouth. The opening I, V and I of IVIDEOIT have melted together to form an M and the word reads MDEOIT. MDEOIT? What the f*ck does MDEOIT even mean? I’ll tell you what it means. It means that Little Miss iVideo is filled with so much murderous contempt for her readers that she expects them to look at such shoddy fontcraft and suffer in silence like lowly subjects of a deranged queen, fearful for their own mortality. More importantly, it means that Billy Mouth has smashed his shaking finger into the mouse and clicked NEXT BLOG.

Wind or Whore? Wind or Whore?

I’m going to attempt, as best I can, to review the post titled Loud and Clear from www.thefoodwhore.com. I say attempt because it is possible that I won’t make it through to the end of the review without smashing my own face to a bloody pulp with the Alan Alda autobiography that lies, gathering phlegm, on my desk. Why? Because this is the intensity of anger that swelled up in my brain when I read this post.

The main gist, if you will, of this piece is how the Food Whore didn’t want to work with a man (in whatever unknown seedy capacity that might be, I sure as hell won’t be reading any more to find out) because he accidentally broke wind down the telephone at her.

Now, I know a certain misguided proportion of you will be able empathise with her. That empathy however only comes when a certain assumption is made. The assumption that I’m talking about anal wind. Well, I’m not talking about anal wind. I am talking about oral wind. A small belch.

The Food Whore deceptively tries to create the impression that some rude, sweaty-eyed gentleman walked up to her, removed his slacks and underpants, held her head under water for a minute, hauled her up and then pumped a hurricane of anal breath into her open, gasping mouth.

However, if you examine the prose closely, you can see that a working man, on his lunch, calls her up and she cruelly belittles him because she can hear that he’s eating (I’d love to hear her trying to quietly eat a veal and peanut tart whilst chatting on the phone) without bothering to investigate further whether he would have actually had the opportunity to eat at any other time. Should he starve himself to death just for a moment of your time? Isn’t it possible, Food Whore, that he would have preferred to call you when his mouth was free of all culinary obstructions?

The poor gentleman then belches. If you suffer from chronic gas, as I do, you will know that it’s rarely possible to retain any degree of control over your own body. But the Food Whore clearly has no understanding or compassion and, in fact, is trying to make out that she’s never broken wind in her perfect, Annie Hall-like life. The gentleman apologises but instead of trying to comprehend just how embarrassed he must feel she decides that he isn’t worthy of her time. She lies to him. She lies to him and then comes on to the internet to boast of her vicious, callous, black-hearted crime.

Are we supposed to be sympathetic? Amused? The author clearly doesn’t know herself as she loses confidence in her own post and suggests that she should not condemn a man based on one phone call. Well, that’s not true, is it? I would willingly condemn a man if he called me up once and threatened to murder me and carve the screenplay of Dead Poets Society into my dead flesh. An accidental belch, however, I would forgive.

Billy’s Rating: Content – 5/75 Use of Metaphor – 75/100

Donation Buttons My Ass!

Have you ever seen such a dull, tedious and depressing MAKE A DONATION button as this one on The Democratic Daily (Top right? Guess what that site’s about)?  Just looking at it makes me feel like shaving my head and eating my own burnt hair until I vomit bile.