Focussed Antipathy

Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls; we live in an age of great technological advancement. We are advancing at such a rate that we now take for granted that which only five years ago would have been deemed unthinkable. In the last century, we put men on the Moon, we charted the deepest oceans, we fought diseases to extinction, and yet – some people are still incapable of realising that in the grand scheme of things; they’re bested by the amoeba special school’s reserve kitchen staff when it comes to cognitive capacity.

I’d wager that you bastards are entirely oblivious to the fact that with every single act of gratuitous idiocy, you send me further into a tunnel-vision journey of wholesome rage fuelled imagination. If we’d reached the level of technology available to the pre-crime cops in Minority Report, I’d be doing life. There should be awards for the creativity I put into thinking of ways in which to abruptly end your stupidity.

But do you know what?

Fuck it.

Do what the fuck you want, I’m utterly tired of giving a shit.

If you want to do the work, do the work. If you want to sit around on your fat worthless arse talking about the profound ins and outs of exactly fuck all, be my guest; just be sure to do it at such a volume that doesn’t provoke a hell-scream fuelled flying machete strike from the shittiest depths of my uncontrolled consciousness. If you had an ounce of sense about you, you’d know you’ve already been enormously warned. Working in this place has pretty much taken what little cheery sections of my soul existed, donkey punched them directly in the area most akin to the bollocks, and thrown them off a cliff into the black void.

It’ll be over in three months… except it fully won’t; we’ve just gone full circle. It may look like a genius solution to you, but down here on the front lines, down here it’s blindingly obvious that all you’ve really done is place yourself three years into the past, with a whole new set of retards at the helm. Fucking quality business management there, absolutely loving it.

A good friend once told me that working here is a good place to start off, but not to make a career of it, as I would learn very quickly exactly how not to run a business. How right he was. Of course most of it is common sense. For instance, if you pay idiots peanuts, you’re going to get the most counter-productive workforce ever. In fact what you’re going to end up with is a glorified coffee lounge full of motor-mouthed gossip machines more content to discuss what item of physics-defying clothing they’re going to ram their horrendously corpulent carcass into. Maybe it’d make more sense to capitalise on this ‘clean’ slate you’ve provided yourself with an upgrade to trained monkeys instead?

No matter how much you sugar-coat it with charity events, support groups and team building bullshit, the foul stench of the effluence below still powers through. As the saying goes, you can’t polish a turd!

Nowhere is that more true than this place.

Fuck it.

Flawed Integrity

"Where's my fucking chair?!"

"What the fuck is this shit all over my desk?!"

Stop gawping at me with half a sandwich hanging out of your gormless face, and shut your stupid mouth before I staple your flapping lip to the fucking desk.

You'd think working in an office, there'd be a ratio of useless wankers to fairly normal people weighted towards the latter. Well, if you thought that, you'd be naive my friend; offices are full of dirty, lazy, slovenly cunts. My office in particular is full of employees who come to work every day under the premise that they might not be working the following week. This is because the company I work for has decided it’d be great to cut me and 750 of my colleagues loose into a financial maelstrom. Cheers, you inconsiderate fucks!

Despite this hindrance, I still don’t believe that it’s any excuse to drop the level of effort that you put into your job. After all, they’re still paying you the wage they’ve been paying you for the past three years – it’d be more than thoughtful to carry on with the same level of work.

Oh wait… you are.

I forgot that this company had to make the best part of 800 people redundant because it was losing money and customers. Taking a look around at the frontline level, I can easily tell you why you’ve lost this money. You employ empty-headed knuckle-dragging fucktards! As I survey the office, there are about 2 in every 10 team members actually doing work. The rest are sat in a mother’s meeting, discussing the internal politics of Big Brother, and how Coronation St is better than Eastenders. Here’s a quick answer for you. They’re both as backwards as each other, written by Sun readers, for Sun readers, and as such, I’ve blown more compelling storylines out of my arse.

Apparently the art of giving a fuck is all but lost. Yes it’s just a chair, but it was my bastard chair. Yes it’s just crap on my desk, but its crap on my bastard desk. Some twatmunch has taken it upon themselves to rob my chair and shower my desk in shitty detritus because they’ve moved onto my team. People should watch whose toes they step on round here, as I’m pretty much one step away from being the loosest cannon on this deck. I truly don’t get this attitude. If I can’t take pride in my work, then I’m just as bad as the rest of the tongue-chewing knuckle-draggers around here. I will never stoop as low as that.

You can take my job and give it to those jocko twats. I can sit and watch as they screw it up and constantly come crawling back to me as I appear to be one of about four people in the whole country who know what the fucking crack is. You can do this as I have no say in what happens – I’m just an employee, you own my contract, and therefore my job. What you can’t do is sit idly on your ass while there’s flagrant indolence happening throughout your shitty business.

It’s time to wake up and smell what you’re shovelling, as there’s been three years of this shit, and now you’re barely dealing with the consequences of what could have been easily avoided if you’d have even just walked past and glanced through the window of business management school.

Fuck the idiotic bureaucracy; I hope you’re happy sat on your piles of dwindling cash surveying all you’ve helped destroy.

That orange glow in the distance? That’s the dissatisfied customers, the discontented employees and the disgruntled workers. I hope you’ve settled all your affairs, as its hunting season, and you’re top of the fucking list.

Inexorable Reckoning

Their anonymous name is dropped through the sands of time; our minds are poised to receive their awe-inspiring belief. The belief that nothing less than purely the best that we can offer will do. There is simply no reserve, no alternative, and no single substitution.

If our all is the entirety of what we can give, then our all is what shall be given; as untainted gratification is mined from the deepest depths of the mental torture we put ourselves through.

At points we will lose the faith, we will falter, and we will question our own morals, but we will never relent, we will never yield, and we will certainly never cross over.

We hold our middle finger proudly aloft at the neurotic bureaucracy, and shout a defiant "Fuck You!" in the name of wholesome awe.

Life, in what ever physical, metaphysical, or psychological light you see it in, is placed here to have the most made of it, and we will not sit idly and let it sail beyond our grasp.

We will eventually drift into the sands, and they will become the ragged band that follows in our footsteps. They will never stop, and like us, they will prevail.

Cheap Lousy Faggot

I cannot even begin to tell you how much I can't be arsed. Interesting really, when you consider the fact that I did just begin to tell you how much I can't be arsed. Furthermore Susan, I'm going to continue to tell you how much I can't be arsed, thus negating the existence of this whole paragraph. Yet here it is, flagrantly staring non-existance in the face, and slapping it's sweaty balls across it's face.

Do paragraphs have balls... and if so, would they sweat?

I digress.

Fuck Christmas. Call me Scrooge, but fuck christmas right in it's shitty arse. I'm not even gonna take the religous slant on it. Christmas can suck directly on my gigantic rusty plums.

If I hear one more time exactly how many fucking days it is till Christmas, I'm gonna start dezzing some faces. I know how fucking long it is till Christmas, it's the same fucking day every fucking year. I swear to fuck that we're just going to be living in a perpetual state of "yay it's fucking Christmas"; the decorations go up earlier every year! The only decoration I've done is to change the theme on my xbox, I don't get paid nearly enough to adorn my house with shitty tat for a month before launching it in the attic to forget about for a year.

Christmas songs can fuck directly off too. I nearly, nearly made it through without hearing the fucking Fairytale of fucking New York. Jesus H Fucksauce, it's not even about Christmas! How merry and joyus is a song about a drunken crack-bitch singing about his whore?! So far, this christmas has been sans Noddy Holder, but time will tell on that one.

Christmas shopping. Fuck. The only day of the week I can get into town, is also the only day of the week everyone else can get into town, but they all seem to have rammed their sense of urgency up their anus. Milling around and gawping at overpriced bullshit that won't last past the end of Boxing Day isn't Christmas Shopping. Christmas Shopping is taking a list. Buying the items on that list, and fucking straight off back home.

Bunch of savages in this town.

So, I cannot be arsed.

Merry fucking Christmas yo!

This blog is brought to you, in part, by the word Fuck!

How's That For A Slice of Fried Gold!?

A guy walked into a pub, and strolled confidently up to the bar. He enquired to the barkeep about their finest real ale. The barkeeper kindly obliged the friendly patron’s request and pulled him a nice dark pint of their best ale.

“This’ll see you through squire” the barkeeper said with a smile “That’ll be £2.50 please” The guy handed over his pennies, and took a nice big sup of the fabulous brew. With a gracious nod to the barkeeper he took his pint and sat down at a table, burying his interest in his newspaper.

A second guy who was perched on a stool at the bar had been rather taken by the prospect of a nice smooth pint of bitchin real ale, and so asked the barkeeper for a pint of the same. Once again, the barkeeper pulled a smooth pint of the same beer. The customer’s eyes lit up at the prospect of sampling this most venerable beverage.

“That’ll be £5.40 please” he said happily. There was a pause.

“I’m sorry, what?!” asked the now confused second customer.

“£5.40 please” The barkeeper repeated jovially.

“Umm… Sorry if I seem a bit twatty or anything, but you charged that dude over there £2.50 for the same drink…” The first customer dipped his newspaper slightly and poked an eye over the top at the proceedings.

“Ahh” exclaimed the barkeeper “His is in a different glass!”

The second customer was left literally speechless. Seeing the customer’s confusion, the barkeeper tried to explain further.

“You see…” He said, as he began to polish the bar top “His glass was made by Theakston’s, this one of yours here by John Smith’s”

The second customer still had absolutely nothing. After a few moments of thought, he constructed a sentence from the heap of bewilderment in his head.

“So… If I may just straighten this out, what you’re trying to tell me is… that you charge for beer… based on what type of glass it’s in…?”

“That’s absolutely right” replied the barkeeper merrily.

Does this seem absurd to you? It should, because it fucking well is!

Juxtapose this situation into the world of computer games. Let us assume I want to buy Fallout 3 for my PS3, it is going to set me back close to half a ton. Fifty of my hard earned English fucking pounds. However, if I was the proud owner of an Xbox 360, I would only have to take a mortgage out to the value of £40 for this game. PC owners have it comparatively easy at about £30 for the game, but they do need to spend around about the national deficit of Africa in order to get their beloved box of tricks to play the damned thing.

Assuming we ignore the fuggly buggly Nintendo freaks who have sold out to the crinkly masses with their fairytale bullshit engine the ‘Wii’, the general target audience of computer games is kids, teenagers and young adults. Targeting your games at this market, whilst simultaneously forcing them to pay through the arse for the privilege is daylight fucking robbery. I for one use gaming as an escape from the increasingly more shitty reality that we live in today. Why it is that the gaming industry feels the need to summon the catch-22 situation wherein I have to spend more shitty hours at work in order to afford to play a game to chill out after spending too many shitty hours at work?

Even if the industry halved the prices, that’d probably be all it’d take. This would bring about the dream-like situation where you could stroll down the high street, eyeball a new release in a shop window, and not have to spend a week trying to fit the purchase into your yearly budget somehow, before buying it anyway and going hungry for the rest of the month. Addiction I hear you cry? Fuck right off – I get paid a quarter of what I should get paid for my vocation. You can suck directly on my rusty plums if you think I’m going to survive on that pay packet without an endless hoard of high definition gore to satisfy what I would get arrested for doing at work. Incidently, November brings a plethora of kickass games – way too many for my pay packet to stretch to. November also brings about my manager finally noticing I’m perpetually fucked off at work. Coincidence? Probably, but it’s an interesting idea.

It might be slightly more tolerable if they made games that lasted more than five minutes and then charged people up to the tits for them. I rented the recent EA title Dead Space last week. If you plotted the difficulty levels in this game on graph, you’d get everything ranging from a slight incline, to the fucking Matterhorn. I’ve noticed this trend in a lot of games. If you want to actually enjoy the game, especially with a lot of games having complex storylines (Bioshock, Dead Space, Halo et al) you pretty much have to play through on the easiest setting. I attempted Bioshock on the next setting up from ”Dictated by the masses, I’m a whiny pussy for playing on this setting” and I didn’t get any enjoyment from the game what-so-ever; if anything it fucked me off further. So – bang-for-the-buck wise, I feel fairly cheated by the majority of games. Pretty graphics and funky lighting go for fuck all when the game lasts either five minutes, or you’re in the same goddamn beautifully rendered room for three fucking days. (Don’t get me wrong on this, Dead Space is fucking minted, and I heartily recommend giving it a play through)

I have digressed somewhat from my main point, which is that the games industry is run by shitty-nosed money-grabbing cock-smokers who are ruled by stats and not customer satisfaction. Look at Rockstar as a game developer. What’s this I hear? Boos and hisses? Surely I can’t be having a go at the Jesus of the games industry? Well – as sure as Jesus was just the son of a fucking carpenter, Rockstar are just as bad as the rest of them. Look at GTA:IV. The media feeding frenzy and unbelievable hype surrounding the release of that game painted the picture of the game to end all games. Without this game your life will not be complete, you must own this game or else your status in human society is in peril. I saw it coming, but I still ended up being swept up in the hype. I took a week off work to play the fucking thing! (A week off work is still a week off work though)

The game is fucking beautiful. The graphics are sublime. The driving is downright pleasurable. Gunning people to bits and laughing my ginger tits off as they fall down flights of stairs is mouth-watering. Killing hookers for point is… well… what more can I say?! It’s all gravy on toast… For a day or two. The missions are repetitive, the police are a bunch of pole-greasing fuck-mongers, and don’t even get me started on the social bullshit scene they’ve programmed in. I have enough trouble holding together my own social life; I don’t want a computer game to tell me I’m shit at it too. If I was a hard-as-fucking-nails east European swanning round New York… sorry, Liberty City stealing, killing, and blowing shit up – If my podgy fucker of a cousin called up blathering on about American titties, I would explain politely that he could pig right out on the contents of my lower intestines.

What I’m getting at is, quite a lot of the time, what we’re promised, and what we’re delivered are two very different things. The Force Unleashed was supposed to be the crowning achievement of Lucasarts’ arsenal. It’s a good game, but the amount of tiny shitty things about it add up way too quickly. Once again the hype surrounding this game was unbelievable. It was slated to be the return to form for one of the greatest sagas ever written. A saga which was subsequently dryshafted by the very jowly twat who wrote it. After the hype had died down, it wasn’t really anything to write home about. It was basically another arcade platformer-cum-beat-em-up, only with a lightsabre.

Basically…

The games industry is a pile of shitty arse-on-toast…but then… you already knew that. I already knew that. You still buy the games. I still buy the games.

*sigh*

Games Industry 1 – 0 Jono.

To eat, perchance to live...

The brisk wind slices across the plain as my knuckles whiten against the cold weapon in my hand. I stare down the mighty beast before me, and a foul torrent of anger besmirches my very soul. My gaze falls through the brutish creation and I begin my attack. My breathless lungs painfully force out an ungodly scream of pure hatred as I begin hacking at the body of the being.

My slashes slide harmlessly off the heavily armoured skin whilst the beast mocks me with a knowing grin. Unperturbed I drive on, endlessly slashing and ripping away at it's skin.

Suddenly I gain an upper hand. A stray blow lands with anger and slices through the seemingly indestructible membrane between the fresh air of the plains and the bloody stale innards of the beast within. A rush of musty pungency hits my face like a freight train, but I battle onwards. I shall eat today!

With one final almost surgical incision, the foul viscera of the beast are revealed to the world.

One battle to the mother fucking death.

One Chicken Caesar Salad finally opened.

...Fucks sake!

To Whom it may Concern...

None of the following is fictional, the names have been omitted to protect the innocent. This was written during a time of severe mental anguish, so I’m sure you’ll forgive the colourful language. Who am I kidding, of course you fucking won’t! If by any chance you should be reading this and finding yourself cognitively decimated by an epiphany of a magnitude far greater than you ever thought possible, boo-fucking-hoo, but maybe it's time to re-assess your social precedence.

I would actually like to start this by expressing my most heartfelt gratitude and thanks. You have shown me that you never truly know a person until you have seen them from all the angles life throws at you. I once looked up to you; I raised you up on a pedestal and thought about nothing but the possibility of being with you. I blindly endangered concrete friendships forged for life as part of the chase. I now feel contaminated by the thought that I ever considered you in such a light. There ain't a disinfecting contemplation in the world that could clean that fucker out of my mind.

The cold journey of revelation can be best documented by describing the slow realisation that you actually live in a fantasy world created by your psyche as a way of dealing with a social out-casting on a biblical scale. There is a very fine line between jovial eccentricity, and apparent severe mental disorder. I began to realise that line was no longer being tread by you, as you had long since taken a swan dive into the icy black depths of socially-withdrawn fucktardism.

Every anecdote I offered had to relate back to you somehow. I am aware this is generally how conversation works in the broad sense of the word – but having an answer for everything which has to trump whatever I've plucked from my head is fairly exasperating after a while. Assuming I could get a word in edge ways; every opinion I had, no matter how trivial, was immediately countered by your own often opposite stance. To be completely honest with you, it grew rather tiresome rather quickly. When I got to the point of being able to predict the outcome of any conversation, it dawned on me that I was beginning to see you for who you really are.

The heart-rending truth is, you showed a self-confessed connection with both me and him. I extended my half of the way, but the reciprocation was never truly met, despite your feelings on the matter. I felt distanced, sidelined – something akin to being the last picked for the football on the school field. I tried, through the voices of my better judgement screaming at me from the back of my mind, I tried.

I happily welcomed you into my home so you could spend time with the man you were clearly enamoured with, my best friend and housemate. Considering the bigger picture, this was fucking psychological miracle work. I put up with your apparent attached-at-the-hip mentality, and ridiculous mile-a-minute worrisome nature. I gave you the space to hang out with this man in my own home, just to help strengthen your relationship with him. I saw how happy it made him, I saw that it was something he, and arguably you both needed. I kept myself to myself, and acted in nothing but a friendly nature towards you. When you worried if you were getting in the way; I took the spasticle's route out and re-assured you that everything was of a rose-tinted, flowery hippy-happy bullshit nature. I extended boundless freedom to you – and you have now offered me in return what I can only describe as a cold-shoulder the likes of which would take an Eskimo by surprise. I guess hindsight has taught me that a brave face was probably not the best thing to do. We’re all learning aren’t we?...

…Or not.

I certainly did not decide move into a house with him in order to sit on my ass, my sanity being constantly poked at by the foreboding desolate nature of an empty home, constantly plagued with thoughts about exactly what it was I did wrong. If there was a ransom for his freedom, I would have gladly paid it. Now however, it seems that ransom is null and void. Your indecisive nature and inability to see past the end of your own fucking nose has resulted in the apparent breakdown of what everyone went through so much to help sow the seeds of. What a fucking waste of time that all was. It would have been quicker to give the poor man a frontal lobotomy and leave him to the dogs. There is simply more to life than being an attention-seeking, vindictive bitch - spouting hippy cock-sauce to mindwash people into making you feel better about your self-indulgent socially repressed ways, but I digress. Far be it from me to deny you of your finest assets.

I also find it very troubling how you feel the need to martyr yourself to a cause you can’t mentally grasp. Don’t take the steps to presume that by banning yourself from spending time with him in his own house, that you are making me feel better. I don’t need you to make me feel better; it’s clearly obvious you have no idea how to do this by now. I couldn’t give a fuck if you want to come round to the house, just don’t expect me to register your existence whilst I’m there. I’m still scraping the barrel of my logic trying to work out what exactly is going on between you both anyway. First of all it’s all over and done with – next you’re on a date. Jesus – just make your fucking mind up! It’s not a quiz!

I was completely useless at dealing with the emotional wreck you’d left behind that night; the tattered husk of an already self-admitted unstable human being. I have no idea of magnitude of devious enchantments you laid on him the day after, but you were both back to sipping Darjeeling on your hippy fantasy cloud away from everyone who was unashamedly bothered by your antics. The ambiguous nature of your sitting-on-the-fence mentality has gotten you no-where, but everyone else is beginning to see the light.

As near as I can call it, this is now proving to be the Hiroshima of things being blown out of proportion. I just can't see why you're both feeling so hard put upon by my feelings on this matter. I've kept myself to myself in order for you to have what you want. I really can’t place the reasoning behind it, but constant pushing for an answer which you full-well already know is shameful. To call my silence a lack of courtesy is fucking repulsive. Whether you know it or not, you’ve forced me into a complete ethical black hole. Clawing my way back out is proving downright impossible, but I am determined. Thank you for the life lesson, I will never be the same person again that's for sure. Arming yourself with obvious argumentative ammunition in this manner is pure and simple malevolence. You can try as hard as you like to bother me with this, but I’ve got the moral shielding to ward off any attack you might throw at me.

You speak of this courtesy like you understand it – I can assure you, going off previous events, you have no grasp of common courtesy, you blindly steamroll through everything that is between you and what you want. You obviously didn’t notice, so I’ll reiterate. The courtesy you so desperately sought from me lied in my not replying at all. If I had, I can assure you – you would have longed for the reply to be unsaid; saving you the extra mental ordeal of knowing exactly what you’ve done. Course… that’s all a bit irrelevant now isn’t it. Maybe it was wrong to leave you adrift in your mental wonderland? Maybe it’s just down to simple pity. I have never known someone so unabashedly evil, yet so apparently ignorant to that fact!

Of course, you're most likely completely oblivious to all of this. The ostensible nonchalance of what seemed like the final hours disgusted me to my very core. You left him in a dark place with your blasé rebuttal of his feelings. That evening was hellish for the man, and due to the fact that you’ve managed to alienate nigh on all of his friends, he was left with me to offer him help. Throughout this testing of my loyalty, as much as it burns me to say - I’m beginning to show signs of losing hope. Any healthy relationship is not only built on commitment, but also compromise – you cannot spend one hundred percent of your time with each other, not this early in the proceedings, not ever! Friends exist, and always will exist, there is no logical path which suggests that by estranging your friends, or even worse – your partner’s friends, you are justified in your actions. But hey, sitting here writing this – I’m as single as they come, what the fuck do I know?

Allow me to explain…

You are both acting like a couple of whiney-bastard emo-faggot teenagers! I’m so unbelievably close to washing my hands of you both; however I don’t want to do this, as someone has to stick around for when you get another psycho episode and ditch him again. Everyone else seems to have given up, but here I am, giving a shit like I always do. You’d think I’d learn from where it lands me. It’s happened again, but I’m sticking around. Maybe this time will show me that when it comes to a relationship, you will always lose out to whoever is doing the ball moistening. I don’t want this to be true, as it’s not how it should happen, but in this case, my aces are on the table, and you’re holding a royal flush.

As I write this, contrary to the content of this wall of hatred, I'm actually feeling the happiest I've felt in a long time. I put this down to purging my conscience of every bit of shitty crap instigated by yourself that was clinging on for dear life - a mental spring cleaning if you will. Why'd you think I write these things?! I took some initiative, and interestingly, some of your own advice. I have gotten myself into a position where I don't feel the need to somehow justify your crazy idea of a 'strong' friendship between us. There was a definite point in time where my mind became clear. It was when I realised the following fact: As far as logic dictates, there is no friendship.

Friends don't blank each other for weeks at a time. Friends don't concoct some strange idea of a connection between each other and then chuck that 'friend' over to the margin of their vision just because they're now getting what they initially set out to get. Friends most certainly do not undermine friends.

A true friend knows when something is up, and once again I feel the need to offer you my most sincere gratitude, as throughout all of this absolute bullshit and mental trauma, it has been proven who my true friends are. They have supported me in their own special ways, be it social self-abuse at the hands of alcohol and tobacco, or simply just being a sponge for my hatred-filled monologues on the nature of life, the universe and everything. Friends actively do something to help sort each other out, not just brush problems under the rug to forget about because it's easier than worrying.

I had the wool pulled over my eyes, but I can now safely say without a doubt, that wool has been scorched from existence. We are not friends. We are not acquaintances. We are not even passing strangers in the street. You do not even register on my radar.

Enjoy your life.