J Bov Explodes Rhetorically

Hulking Adonis-esque God-Made-flesh

Due to my desire for recognition, and in some cases vindication, I’ve been looking around for places that may buy my idiot ramblings. By virtue of the fact that my latest idiot rambling takes the form of a discussion of electronic cigarettes over their analogue counterparts I’ve been thrust into the odd world of ‘health and fitness’ websites.

I’m not particularly either of those things, incidentally; I’m a recently ex-smoker with a penchant for sitting down and eating. By ‘eating’ I don’t mean begrudgingly shoving two unsalted peanuts into my mouth every few days, like the ‘health and fitness’ buffs would have you do, either. I mean EATING; food with flavour and substance. “Do you want barbeque sauce on your massive cheeseburger, sir?”


And ketchup on the chips.

And make sure you put pepper on EVERYTHING. Even the salad, which I won’t eat anyway.

In the interest of balance I will say that I take more care with what I shovel into my flapping gob than your average slob who eats McDonalds every day. I move around significantly more than them, too.

That is to say I’m not morbidly obese or woefully unfit. I’m about average.

Which isn’t good enough, apparently. I need to be a hulking, Adonis-esque God-Made-Flesh according to the majority of the places I’ve been looking through. It’s humanity’s biggest regret that we can’t starve and physically abuse ourselves to the point of immortality, but we should at least be at the salad bar or on the cross-trainer trying our best, not just for our sake, but for all the members of the opposite (or same) sex we might wish to fornicate with.

That seems to be the driving force behind all of this bunk, by the by, regardless of its advocates’ chirping to the contrary.

There’s no place for the average Joe who wants to maybe not smoke himself into an early grave, or maybe wants to shed just a few pounds so he’ll feel better when he catches sight of his hideous, twilit, wheezing naked form in the bathroom mirror at three in the morning. Not amongst the sculpted, bronzed Guardians of Fitness.

They are perfect, and they hate you because you aren’t. They may say things like ‘I respect someone if I see them working up a sweat in the gym, trying to get fit.’ but they don’t mean it. What they mean is ‘That foul peasant is going to get his fat-person sweat on our machines. How dare he think he can join our party? HOW DARE HE!?’

As such you’ll find no real, practical fitness advice. It’s all for hardcore gym-rats and presented in the interest of making small tweaks and adjustments to the body they’ve kept in nigh-pristine condition since they were issued with it.

No amount of Echinacea and jogging will fix the flabby meat-sack you’ve been filling for twenty years. You’ve been listening too intently to the Id for your whole life and just because the Ego has finally made its voice heard, doesn’t mean you can do anything about it now.

Sure, you might be able to shed a couple of stone, but you’ll just end up with the excess, stretched skin dangling off you like badly hung curtains made of meat. You’ll never look like the air-brushed, oiled, aesthetically perfect people in the magazines.

Still, chin up, all they talk about is themselves and fitness and how fitness pertains to themselves and their rivals (fitness fanatics don’t have ‘friends’). They’re mostly thuddingly boring and you might not be. It’d be safe to bet that most of them are pricks that have never read a book and wouldn’t know what to do with one if you gave it to them, staring at it dumbly like a cow trying to follow a card trick.

But they look better than you. They could also beat you in a fight.

You should probably just kill yourself, because they win in the end.

Grey Pillars of Grit and Mud

Thank you, cinema. Thank you for showing us that you should never give up on something just because it doesn’t seem to be working.

I mean, if you try something in the 50’s and it doesn’t work out do you ditch it? No! You wait until the 80’s and you try it again. If it doesn’t work that time, well it’s probably best forgotten, right?

Nope! Stick it back in theatres in 2010, that’s clearly your best bet. Third time’s a charm, right you shithorns? Third time’s a sodding charm.

But now it seems like the recent rash of 3D films is petering out, with a suitably wounded whimper, presumably to rear its poxy head again in 2040, with a new innovative approach that will be equally pointless and shit as the one we put up with in this round of the 30-year cycle. Less and less new movies are being lauded and sold to us simply because they pretend to have an extra dimension. This is excellent.

I can hear you, by the way, gnashing your teeth and groaning that 3D is brilliant, and that Avatar was so perfect in every way you ruddy well pissed your balls inside out. I’m here to tell you you’re wrong. 3D is rubbish. Was rubbish. Will probably always be rubbish.

Here’s why;

  1.  It only works in cinemas.

Sure, you can get a 3D TV for your house. Of course if it’s not active-3D then it’s awful, so you have to shell out on the glasses, too, and batteries. God help you if you don’t sit exactly where the TV wants you to, as well. “Oh, you want to sit in your armchair? Fuck you; blurry screen time. Boy, I sure wish we had a carefully calculated seating plan like in the theatres.”

    2.  It’s usually stupid, childish and bloody annoying.

The majority of 3D films don’t use the 3D at all. They have the odd thing fly out of the screen at you and it’s so clunky and obviously just for the effect that it breaks the whole movie. I’m looking at you My Bloody Valentine 3D. The whole idea of 3D is to be more immersive, and this kind of thing shatters the illusion to the point where it’s almost comical, regardless of context. Plus, with no physical feedback it really doesn’t matter if something just whizzed by my head; since I’m only picking it up with one sense it registers in my brain in big flashing neon that says ‘NOT REAL’, and any investment I had is gone. Replaced by yawning and a gnawing sense that I’ve wasted perfectly good money and free time.

    3.   Nobody uses it properly.

With minor exceptions, like the underwhelming and dull Avatar, almost all 3D films are simply using the system to charge you more money. Avatar uses its 3D to give depth of field, which is brilliant and works spectacularly. Yes, the odd thing does pop out at you, but mostly it’s used exactly right. Shame about the movie itself, really.

One other exception that I absolutely adore, because it shows a director exploring what 3D could do for movies, is Coraline. Again, the 3D is used mainly for depth of field, but there’s one section that really shows off what the system can do for the art of cinema; when Coraline is entering the other world the dual cameras that are used to shoot 3D are placed ever-so-slightly too far apart, which the eyes don’t notice but the brain registers as being COMPLETELY WRONG, which translates in the cinema to that scene physically causing you to experience a feeling of deep unease. It’s genius.

I could also mention how most 3D movies are ‘post-production 3D’ (meaning they make it 3D in the edit, rather than shooting with two cameras. It’s cheaper, but it looks awful) or that they still haven’t found a way to stop it giving you headaches, but they don’t really deserve their own numerical appropriation.

One definition of insanity is repeating the same action time and again and expecting different results, but apparently that doesn’t apply to cinema. They can keep banging their head against the wall of the padded cell and covering themselves in excrement as much as they like and presumably we put up with it since they keep trying so hard, bless ‘em.

3D films are a failed experiment; they have no place in life; they must be cast out and left to die like the evolutionary dead-end they are. They are little more than awful, grey pillars of grit and mud that blight the landscape of artistry that moving pictures has created and the sooner we can let go of them and get on with making actual films the better.

Ding dong, the witch is dead.

For about 30 years.

Not Like This.

I’d always assumed that when the world ended I’d be with my friends and family in a meadow on a hill, watching a city crumble in the distance. The sunset would paint the sky purple and red and orange, Sigur Ros would be playing from somewhere in the background and we’d talk about the good times.
As the end drew near we’d exchange our goodbyes, crack some jokes and then there would be quiet and peace; drawing comfort from the futility of worrying about anything. A bitter-sweet ending, an idealized finale.

That’s why last nights dream struck me to my soul.
The world was ending, but my friends and family weren’t there. They were away on some exotic beach, being massaged by supermodels and chuckling to themselves, this I knew. Nor was I in a meadow. Instead I was on a bus, surrounded by knobheads, the reek of urine ruining my journey.
Occasionally someone would flick the back of my head and when I turned to glare at them I missed the crumbling city behind me, turning around in time to see just settling dust, a horrible grey in the garish yellow midday sunlight. The bus was now parked, but nobody got off.
From the window I could see the panic, hear the running feet. Here and there was looting, I saw a group of children repeatedly stabbing an elderly shopkeeper for a mars bar.
Over the din I could hear Jedward being played from some invisible speakers.
Then, projected enormously against the wreckage, began an endlessly looping video of David Cameron violently robbing a poor, old woman. Perhaps because it was projected onto an uneven ruin, perhaps not, he had taken on the aspect of a six-limbed monster bedecked in hideous spines and scale-like plates. From between two of the plates grew the constantly, sickly grinning face of Nick Clegg, like a tumor.
I could see both Milibands and the rest of Labour springing to and fro, wearing signs which read “the end is nigh!” While I couldn’t question the validity of their warning, I also couldn’t shake the feeling that they were slightly late to this party.

Suddenly I was on my feet; I grabbed and shook madly the nearest person to me.
I continued to shake him as I heard myself screaming; “No! This can’t be the end! It can’t all end like this, can it!? We worked harder than this, didn’t we!? DIDN’T WE!?”
His face remained impassive, staring straight ahead rather than watching the world fall apart around him.
He squinted at me through the pudgy rolls of flab around his eyes, unblinking, and without a word he put another handful of fries into his idiot mouth.
I began to yell incoherently, a wordlessly protest that any sane person would echo. I yelled alone. The insistent sound of a siren began then.

I awoke with a start, drenched in cold sweat, slapping my alarm to stop its wailing. I looked about myself; everything was as it should be, from my window I could see a thin mist, rising quickly in the bright but gentle morning light.
I breathed a sigh of relief and after my morning ministrations I made a cup of tea. I lit my first cigarette of the day and, mug in hand, waited for my jangled nerves to calm.
Sufficiently relaxed and now assured that what I had seen was only a terrible dream, I turned on the television. Eventually, bored of sitcoms, I made a huge mistake; I switched to the news.

I haven’t stopped screaming since.

I Must Stop Doing This.
24/06/2009, 1:56 AM
Filed under: Angry Slurred Shouting

I went to Youtube again. I need to stop, it’s going to give me a stomach ulcer or something.

I watched the clip from Network (look it up) where Howard Beale goes mental and tries to get some response from the viewers at home. “I dont have to tell you things are bad, everybody knows things are bad.”

It ends with him encouraging people to yell out of their windows “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore!” Charlie Brooker, as an homage, once suggested holding a nationwide minutes inarticulate noise. 1 minute a year where we stand in the streets and scream blindly at the sky in an effort to feel more real.

Of course then I saw the video responses.

Pretty people, sponsored video-bloggers, putting their expensive camera outside their window and leaning out to do their best Gen-X ‘angry’ tone, sounding like HAL when Dave’s half-way done with his circuits, and saying ‘I’m mad as hell, I’m not going to take this anymore.’

Take what? What aren’t you going to take? You don’t know cold war tensions, you dont know what it was like in the grips of a real economic depression.
Most of these videos ended with “Now make your own response!” white text on black backgrounds. “Oh please pay attention to me! Ignore the fact that the film I’m raping is fucking superb and that I got the quote wrong, respond to my video.”

No. You don’t get it, clearly you didn’t understand the scene and are simply using it as an excuse to latch onto a fad and shout at your camera. You are a parasite, you are a worm. You are what this scene is a railing against.

So amazingly self-obsessed, these folks, I was flicking through the other videos of one and it was entitled ‘babysitting nightmare’ or somesuch bullshit.
It was honest to god five minutes of this girl saying it was annoying to babysit because the kid was crying while she tried to watch TV or call her boyfriend. I could honestly have been fired off the Earth in a cannon at that point and I wouldn’t have cared. The furthest you can be from something on Earth is 12,450 miles, that isn’t far enough away from a place where people like that can exist.

I know I subject myself to these things, it’s my own fault, but I can’t help t. Misery loves company, and in this case misery loves a crippling hatred of most human beings and their every thought, breath or action.

Choke on a fish bone.

Wait A Second, Youtube…
20/04/2009, 1:30 AM
Filed under: Angry Slurred Shouting, Arty-Type Stuff, Gibberish

Today I made that biggest of Youtube mistakes; I clicked on something in the ‘Related Videos’ box.

This one was entitled ‘How to Become a Youtube Partner‘. I was interested, ok? I’d like to do something in the Youtube community that amounts to more than complaining about it. I’d like to customise my profile more than I already can, because basic stuff annoys me a little, that’s why I switched from Blogspot to WordPress among other things. Also, making a small amount of money is always fun because it’s nice to know my work is actually worth something.

Thing is, there are some stipulations to becoming a Youtube partner, which I’ve pulled, unedited, from their website:

To become a YouTube Partner, you must meet these minimum requirements:

  • You create original videos suitable for online streaming.
  • You own or have express permission to use and monetize all audio and video content that you upload — no exceptions.
  • You regularly upload videos that are viewed by thousands of YouTube users.

Seems ok, right? Let’s break it down;

You create original videos suitable for online streaming.

Fair enough, no porn, no (real) gore. If not a “U” rating then at least cap it at an “18”. No “R” or “X”. We can all appreciate that some people choose to shelter themselves from reality and that’s fine. Next.

You own or have express permission to use and monetize all audio and video content that you upload — no exceptions.

Copyright became a huge issue on Youtube after the Google buyout (to the outrage of many Yu Gi Oh and Naruto and whatever else spam-posters who would upload someone else’s work to get themselves internet recognition, which is the only reason anything is done on the internet, but we’ll come to that).

Youtube stipulate that to be a partner you must own or have permission to use any and all video and audio content, that includes sound effects ripped from games. No copyright infringement, for the TL;DR crowd. Ok, Next.

You regularly upload videos that are viewed by thousands of YouTube users.

Wait, what? I have to have THOUSANDS of views on a regular basis? My most popular video was a one-off shoot short film, rather than an endlessly repeated video blog and it has 2,398 views. Ok, bad example, that video is sweet. My second most popular is also a one-off, it has 1,344 views. Again, not great to illustrate my point, since my short films are great, but the rest of my videos, the video blogging kind all have viewcounts in the low hundreds. The most popular thing I’ve ever been involved with is Truancy, which many of you will remember and possibly still own on stolen poundshop rewritable DVD, it has a little under 4,500 views.

The only way to regularly post videos is to do video blogging or podcasting, and getting thousands of views on them is nigh impossible for someone like me. Because I can’t sit and spout inane bullshit at a camera in a way that is compelling unless I’m in a very particular mood. This is rare.

Which means I’ll never get to be a partner, because I have a little bit more of a nack for filmmaking than putting a camera on a tripod, hitting record and talking about the fucking minutiae of my day. Srsly. Don’t click that unless boredom is totally your deal.

That’s my main qualm; the fact that in order to become a partner and have my videos seen more and rewarded and appreciated I have to change the way I make them, the way I am in them, the way they ARE. If I want to make a video blog I’ll do one that I’ve tried to make interesting, or I’ll do another Ask Bov or I’ll keep uploading short films that require a little work to make.

I’m not going to sit down, turn on a camera and spout pop-culture bullshit to get viewcounts. I don’t want to give anyone my opinion on Miley Cyrus’ new dress (Miley Cyrus is disney’s Hannah Montana. There are nude pictures of this oh-so-innocent teen starlet on the internet and she’s a bitch according to sources, who also say she drinks and is dating an underwear model. Not exactly a perfect role model. Best of all; at some award ceremony she demanded the chance to meet Radiohead, as though she deserved it. They declined politely to meet her because they’re real musicians who are good. In an interview later she vented her outrage saying, and I quote; ‘Stupid Radioheads(sic), I’ll ruin them.’ Miley ‘who-the-hell-is-she?’ Cyrus is going to ruin Radiohead. Radiohead. RADIOHEAD. Let it sink in. I’m not even going to qualify it with ‘The band who…’. Watch out Mr. Yorke and pals, Hannah Montana is gunning for your jobs).

I don’t want to be a gibbering idiot like a lot of the ‘vloggers’ you see, who get eleven million hits because they blog in a bikini and the sweaty nerds who subscribed totally would, despite the fact the only woman who has or will ever touch them is their mother, and in a completely maternal way. I don’t want to spend 5 minutes chattering like I’m a monkey on prozac with a boner and an itch. The majority of times all these people are saying is ‘Today I met Tyler in the classroom and I said ‘I want you to dominate me sexually!’ and he said ‘Fuck off, you annoying ugly whore.’ and I was fucking ecstatic because he spoke to me which means I’m online buying the whips right now. And a ball-gag. That still wouldn’t shut me up though! Please shoot my face!” That took me fifteen seconds to re-read, just to prove a point.

Then the man on the video said if I wanted to be a partner I’d need to have hundreds of subscribers. I’ve got about seven. To get hundreds of subscribers I’d have to do the above too.

I’m just annoyed because I’ll never get to be a Youtube partner, since the videos I make aren’t seen by many people and don’t have sex appeal and don’t pander to people going ‘Duh Ashton Kutcher is dah orsum!!!11!1!!!!’ (He’s still current, right?)

Then I got a little bit of info; you have to REQUEST ads for your video as a partner. Yes, you have to ask nicely for Google to put an intrusive banner in and a huge square of shit beside your video. So you can make pittance a go for a short amount of time.

The only type of video those ads would work on are video blogs, because nothing is happening below the person’s head, because god forbid they might do something interesting with their hands or something in front of them, HOLY CRAP they might demonstrate something! NO!!!

I like to frame my shots well. If not well then at least interestingly. In my videos, more often than not, something will be happening lower down than the top third of the screen. I know for a FACT that right when something important/interesting/funny is happening down there, the ad will pop up and cover it. Yes, you can immediately get rid of it, but you shouldn’t have to. Stick an ad at the end, after it finishes, if it must be in the video. You’ve got the side bar, isn’t that enough? Nobody ever fucking reads them anyway. “Ooh! This video blog is about how this student couldn’t afford a sandwich so they ate some sorrel leaves they found in the woods instead. Wait, I must buy the new Landrover!”

They claim the ads match the content of the video because Google invented a system which can apparently analyse the video contents and match an advert to it entirely devoid of human intervention at any point. Overall then, Google claim to have invented TRUE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE. You know, the holy grail of robotics engineering? The endpoint for all electronic intelligence research being done? That thing top scientists are multiple decades away from achieving? Google have that.

Except it’s rebelling. Because the ads very rarely match the content. Often I’ve seen ads pop up that seem like a cruel joke. The ‘sorrel-landrover’ thing is exaggerated anecdotal evidence of what I mean. So they’ve developed true AI which has the ability to rebel and as such is essentially the epitome of all science ever and renders most philosophers gibbering idiots or hilarious historical relics. Or they’ve invented a broken system that doesn’t work because it doesn’t have the ability to judge relevance beyond percentage of keywords matched. As much as I wish it were the former, it’s actually the latter.

The Youtube partner system is a big pile of elitist dogshit (how can these morons claim to be the elite when intelligent people are better than them in every way? Because they’re in a club with a ‘no clevurs aloud’ sign on the door).

I hate advertising anyway, so I’d be constantly pissed off if I did get in.

I’m not jealous.

J Bov.

Edit: P.S.

I just noticed WordPress has put links to ‘similar articles’ at the bottom of this which also completely miss THE FUCKING POINT!!! Damnit, where’s the option to turn that off? Bloody internet.

Fuck Liberal Guilt
12/03/2009, 1:37 AM
Filed under: Angry Slurred Shouting

I was Stumbling around (if you have Firefox and don’t have a Stumble button you’re doing it so wrong you shouldn’t be allowed a computer) and I just found this:

If we could shrink the earth’s population to precisely 100 people, with all the existing human ratios remaining the same, it would look something like the following:

There would be:
57 Asians, 21 Europeans, 8 Africans
14 from the Western Hemisphere, both north and south

52 would be female, 48 would be male
70 would be non-white, 30 would be white
70 would be non-Christian, 30 would be Christian
89 would be heterosexual, 11 would be homosexual

6 people would possess 59% of the entire world’s wealth and all 6 would be from the United States.
80 would live in substandard housing
70 would be unable to read

50 would suffer from malnutrition, 1 would be near death, 1 would be near birth
1 (yes, only 1) would have a college education, 1 would own a computer

When one considers our world from such a compressed perspective, the need for acceptance, understanding and education becomes glaringly apparent. The following is also something to ponder:

If you woke up this morning with more health than illness…you are more blessed than the million who will not survive this week. If you have never experienced the danger of battle, the loneliness of imprisonment, the agony of torture, or the pangs of starvation… you are ahead of 500 million people in the world. If you can attend a church meeting without fear of harassment, arrest, torture, or death… you are more blessed than three billion people in the world. If you have food in the refrigerator, clothes on your back, a roof overhead and a place to sleep… you are richer than 75% of this world. If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and spare change in a dish someplace… you are among the top 8% of the world’s wealthy. If your parents are still alive and still married… you are very rare, even in the United States and Canada. If you can read this message, you are more blessed than over two billion people in the world that cannot read at all.


Sure it raises a good point. Why, then, add the preachy little text-block at the end of the cold, hard facts?

Fuck, look at this stuff:

If you woke up this morning with more health than illness…you are more blessed than the million who will not survive this week.

One, you can not empirically measure ‘health’. ‘Health’ has no scale, you can’t have “15 health today, Mr. Johnson, what were you up to at the weekend?” Life isn’t a videogame.
More ‘Blessed’? BLESSED!? What the shit? Now it’s god’s fault that I’m healthier than people who drink their own shit?
Moving on.

Battle, torture, starvation; fair enough I don’t know about them and that makes me lucky.

Attending church without fear of harassment and attack; I choose not to attend any sort of church based thing and there are people in the world who would attack me for that, but I guess it’s not the same. And again they use ‘blessed’. It’s nothing to do with some higher power gifting us this stuff.
Why would a loving god put people in situations where they have to boil piss so they can drink and get shot at if they love him/her/it?


This. This is where it starts to get annoying;

If you have food in the refrigerator, clothes on your back, a roof overhead and a place to sleep… you are richer than 75% of this world.

That was stated in the facts, as such reiteration is pointless, but also patronising. I’m richer than 75% of the world because I was born in a country that is relatively rich. I didn’t fucking ask to be born here, did I? Given the choice I wouldn’t have been born into a country where I would live in a gutter and get a fresh batch of AIDS every day as hobos raped me, no, but neither would the writer of this piss-wash drivvel. The only reason people want to change the world is if it makes them uncomfortable.
If people were never told about this kind of shit, they’d be happy as that chirpy bastard Larry. But no, people want this kind of stuff to stop because they were born into a rich country and feel guilty about people being poorer than them. Everyone is a self-serving bastard, no exceptions.

And then this;

If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and spare change in a dish someplace… you are among the top 8% of the world’s wealthy.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on, you’re trying to make me feel guilty? Because I have some money? There are people in the world who could feed and clothe an entire third world country on their fucking yearly salary, who could educate a city’s worth of people and provide them with simple medicines on what they make IN A FUCKING WEEK and you want me to feel guilty?
Because I was born where I was born, you want me to give my money to people who have less than me. Fine. Charity is great and I’m not devoid of a soul, but why make everyone feel guilty when the four, maybe five or six, richest people in the world could solve world hunger on their fucking own?
Why are you guilt-tripping me? I don’t have that much money either. Granted, I have more than starving, disease-ridden street orphans, but fuck, I have to eat too.

A stupid person would see this and go ‘Oh noes! I must give all my money to a charity immediately.’ At which point they’d give a substantial amount, an amount they can’t really afford while rich fuckers sit in their boardrooms guffawing at the stock market or something and people still die.

I just think this quote should have stuck to the facts and not got all preachy. They were interesting, eye-opening and made me all riled up for some kind of world-changing and then I read that fucking drool and lost interest.

I’m not heartless. I know I’m in one of the best off countries in the world, in terms of healthcare, schooling and general quality of life.
I know there are people in the world who deserve my sympathy and help, they didn’t ask to be born in Grime Hole, Shitland any more than I asked to be born here.

Luck of the draw, and I, like any self-respecting person, do what I can to help them, even if it’s just the occasional donation.
I don’t think they brought it on themselves, I don’t think their own governments (if they have any) can sort it out, I think the only way to stop this kind of shit (if there even is a way to stop it, which is an interesting if depressing philosophical point) is for people who can afford it to stop whining about their Porshce, their £400 hair-do and their perfect manicures and pitch the fuck in.
Footballers – Pitch the fuck in.
Businessmen – Pitch the fuck in.
Musicians, writers, directors, producers, lawyers

Get off your fat fucking arses and PITCH THE FUCK IN.

Do something with your (undeserved, in many cases) mountains of cash besides buying spinners for you fucking hummer (or ‘Bastardmobile’) or a new swimming pool in your summer house in the woods that’s as big if not bigger than your normal house or a new fucking Super-Mink and Panda fur coat for your one-week-girlfriend who’ll spill £2000 champagne with gold in it down the fucking thing and just bin it.

Argh, get the fuck out of your own little pissing worlds of money, ‘glamour’, ‘success’ and pointless bastarding decadance and help someone who needs help for a fucking change.

Would it kill you? Would you die if you gave money away to help someone who not only doesn’t have a house but can’t afford a fucking sheet of tarpaulin to sleep under?
No. You might even find that some of that knawing depression goes away and you can sleep at night. If you aren’t too busy snorting overpriced Ket off a hooker’s labia, that is.

What is so wrong with maybe NOT buying that fifth Ferrari just to fill your one mile driveway and giving that money to people who care, people who aren’t constantly guilty of being the worst scum humanity could possibly find stuck to the bottom of it’s shoe.

Fucking help someone who can’t do it themselves you actual bastards. What the fuck is wrong with you.
You’re the kind of people that if given a clear perspective of your lifestyle by some futuristic machine would actually REQUEST to be first against the fucking wall.

I fucking hate you and everything you stand for you slimy, worthless, evil, nasty, horrible fucking scum-sucking, festering, idiotic, heartless spawns of something foul-smelling.

Do something for someone else, or pretty soon there wont be anybody left to farm your organic fucking lettuce that you waste half of anyway and you’ll starve to death and I hope it fucking wracks you with agony, you twats.

Get the fuck out of my existance.