Sunday, August 3, 2014


Wait... remember me? No? Yes? Of course you do! I'm the guy who used to do the rants about things, you know and got upset about stuff? No, not the hillbilly down the street from you. ME! That guy from New Zealand who's anti-social and stuff. Oh forget it. The point is, I hate a bunch of stuff, I come here and throw words at it. You read it and then write to me demanding the 5 minutes of your life back. I give you the proverbial internet middle finger. That's how it works.

1. SEX AND THE CITY. (Plus Starcrash)

Allow me to demonstrate to you why the world is so fucked beyond repair. No, it has nothing to do with war or famine or anything. It has to do with SEX AND THE CITY. You know the show. The show about a bunch of everyday women in some big city telling each other every detail about every genital they come in contact with (which seems to be a lot). Every single week it's like, oh this guy has premature ejaculation. Oh, this guy makes me dress up like his aunt Jemima. Oh, this guy asks me to stand on my head and recite the pledge of allegiance whilst slapping the back of my head with his schlong. For one thing, I blame this trainwreck of a show on the phenomenon of girls feeling the need to get together and discuss the minutiae of their love lives in sordid detail. NO WONDER I CAN'T GET ANY DATES. EVERY DAMN WOMAN IN THE WORLD KNOWS I'M COMING. For the second thing, these characters are so goddamn unlikeable I curse the fact that I can't spear them with a javelin through my television screen. For three, there were Sex in the City Movies that people paid to see. That money could have gone to something worthwhile for fuck's sake. Like inventing a cure for all the fucking STDs these characters must have by now. SIX SEASONS?! SIX SEASONS>!>! GET FUCKED. Because that's all these characters seem to do. Oh zing. You see what I did there?

If the world had any sense at all, there would be no seasons of this, and six seasons of a show based around the epic 1970s science fiction romp STARCRASH. The robot El! Five consecutive episodes of Acton debating joining in the action then deciding to stay on the ship! Amazon women with giant robots! An evil galactic emperor with a bevvy of sluts! SPACESHIPS THAT CAN HALT THE FLOW OF TIME WITH A POORLY ANIMATED GREEN GLOWY TUBE OF LIGHT.

2. Stars I love cancelling appearances at Cons.

It was February. Of the stardate 2014. I tingled with excitement, knowing that I was a month and a half away from meeting Lauren Cohan, the love of my life and future wife. And then she cancelled MegaCon. And then other people that other people I liked liked cancelled as well. And now our forbidden love is delayed another year. Which is bad for me. Very bad. Because the more anticipation, the more precious seconds get removed from myself and Lauren's first intimate experience (for the record, the forecast has it currently hovering at around 17.5 seconds). SERIOUSLY PEOPLE. When you book yourself into a Con, there is something you have to understand. People who go to Con's are a special breed. We are hopelessly devoted to every single little thing you do. We live our lives based on your Walking Dead characters, your movies you direct or the scenarios you write in your illustrated glossy pages. WE WILL COMMIT TO YOUR APPEARANCE IMMEDIATELY. We will plan our entire lives around it. The two seconds we spend in your presence shaking your hand and getting a photograph are the nexus around which our entire galaxy revolves. So if you say you're going to be there... the excuse for cancelling better be damn good. And family emergency doesn't count. Your dying or deceased loved ones can suck it up without you. You do what my hero of villainy David Morrissey did, and you be there, and you TELL ME MY GOVERNOR COSTUME LOOKS GOOD. And if you're Lauren... you agree to marry me. That's all we ask. OH THE HUMANITY.

3. Hospitals.

You know, with my condition I have to visit a hospital once every eight weeks for a day long stay. As such, I have over the years come to notice a few things about hospitals. For instance, they smell like a strange mix of detergent, vegetables and fresh paint. Also, they have intensely confusing layouts that ensures anyone coming to visit you will never ever be able to actually find you within visiting hours. But the most important thing I've noticed is... THEY ARE NOT DESIGNED TO FACILITATE WELLNESS. I mean seriously, when I think of a building custom designed to make me feel better I think of a hammock, a massive collection of heavy metal, some nurses dressed in Black Widow outfits and a collection of Marvel movies, Xbox games and STEAKS. But what do I get instead? A freaking cheap ass reclining chair because all the beds are taken. A radio playing all the greatest hits of the 1930s. BEING SURROUNDED BY OLD PEOPLE ON THE BRINK OF DEATH AS A CONSTANT REMINDER OF MY OWN MORTALITY AND HOW VERY SCREWED UP I MUST BE TO BE 28 YEARS OLD AND BE HERE. And food so bad I suspect they put some blended up cardboard between two pieces of 10 day old bread. Healing the sick. YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.

4. Only two new Marvel movies per year.

Self explanatory.

5. American one dollar bills.

Now, I come from a semi-enlightened society. We have sensible money. But twice a year when I journey to the land of the long white banking bailout, I come across something that is not only unsensible, it's downright nonsensical. ONE DOLLAR NOTES. COME ON PEOPLE. You see, the problem here is obvious. First you never spend the one dollar notes because you actually need real money to pay for shit. Then you accumulate more one dollar notes when they give you change. Then after a while, you look in your wallet, teeming with notes and you're like, FUCK. I'M RICH. SWAG. And then you realise that they're all ones. And you tumble in a shame spiral of monetary disappointment that can only end in suicide. WAKE UP AMERICA. CAN'T YOU SEE THEY'RE KILLING US?!

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