YTAH's Weblog

Irritable Bowel Syndrome: Random Nastiness for Your Delectation.

Posted in rants by YTAH on March 10, 2008
Tags: , , ,

Round about now, you’re probably wondering whether it’s possible for someone to harbour as much anger as Yours Truly without spontaneously combusting. Well, I suppose you’re right. If every single thing in the universe pissed me off as much as bad movies, my shitty job, and Tom Hanks, I would indeed explode in a blistering display of vehemence and hatred. Most things piss me off, but there are some things I just can’t work up enough enthusiasm about to fuel an entire column’s worth of bile. So herewith a selection of pithy diatribes about various things that annoy me enough to make me want to incinerate someone, but not enough to motivate me sufficiently to fetch the petrol can from the toolshed. And now, sit back and enjoy this latest emission – a colonic irrigation for the soul, if you will. (Not your soul, naturally, but mine – my cold, bitter, unrepentant soul.)

Once again, our company has given us the finger. “How?” you ask. By doing something completely expected, and yet surprising in its cheapness. What’s that Bright Eyes lyric – “I’m not surprised, but I never feel quite prepared.” If the place were less pathetic, I’d be able to work up more anger about this, but my rage lasted about half an hour before I realized that it was just par for the motherfucking course.

In ages past we’d have four grand banquets in the finest hotels over the course of the year, plus a space-shuttle launch every Sunday. Instead we now get a day-old pizza for Christmas and two finger lunches, with all events to be held under the leaky drain at the open sewer that empties out next to our building. That way, once we have feasted on the assorted crackers provided and gulped down the warm, golden liquid, we can go straight back to work.

Finger lunch? Hell yeah, I got your lunch right here, you sons of bitches. Hope you like mustard on your knuckle sandwich. Yeah, you feel that. And it’s not going in your mouth, fucker. Oh, and by the way: that isn’t mustard. No sirree. But you know that by now, don’t you.

Let’s do lunch, beyaaaatch.

While we’re on the subject of fisting: the finger of god. You’re right, it is a message from god. It’s god, giving you the finger. Think about it, terwyl jy daarop sit en roteer. (Poes.) And while we’re about it: that’s not a comet, it’s a flaming hunk of petrified alien shit, which some far-off space giant dug out from his anal cavity and flicked across the galaxy.

And speaking of shit sent flying across vast expanses by unthinking bastards: Wikipedia, and anyone who takes bloggers, vloggers, web pundits, and the other denizens of the Internet seriously. Who are these people and why are we letting them tell us how the universe works? The only thing preventing me from going postal about it is the fact that I have now taken up the gauntlet of being a regular web wanker myself. So now I’m all in favour. Go Internets!

Hypocricy. Plus, consistantly bad spellling on the Interent.

Oh, and I just saw an online article that reckons Robert Zemeckis and Tom Hanks are one of the 5 best actor-director pairings imaginable. And they’re right. Neither of them have ever made an honest film, or one containing even a smidgen of balls, which leads me to conclude that yes, they deserve each other. Now if they would somehow morph into a misshapen lump and go hang out on a deserted beach somewhere. Preferably with a tribe of cannibals, who all have rabies.

Everybody loves a uniform.

Speaking of Afghanistan: all the latest news stories about Prince Harry secretly fighting there. Now, before you accuse me of being completely heartless, I have to admit a shameful secret: I have nothing against the lad. I wish him all the best, dead mom and all; not to mention the burden of all that taxpayers’ money he gets handed as a birthright. (He repays the public in paparazzi photos, so who are we to complain.) Also, I wouldn’t say no, if you know what I mean. (But then I wouldn’t say no to Wayne Rooney either, as long as he doesn’t speak or play with his ball too much. What can I say, I have a thing for redheads.) Be that as it may. What pisses me off is how the hero worship has started, and this time he isn’t just the son of a deceased tabloid magnet. He’s a human clotheshorse who’s wearing the nice appealing uniform of a soldier. So now lots of little kids all over Britain and its ex-colonies will begin to equate soldiering with heroism. Now, the 3rd-in-line-to-the-British-crown™ has as much right to go and get himself killed as anyone else, and kudos to him for trying to help out the evolutionary process that way, but do we really need another man in a costume playing commando? I thought we’d already had enough of the last guy doing duty as the poster boy for George’s War of Error. (And yes, we’re talking about you, Colin.)

See? I didn’t even make the obvious colon joke. What’s this world coming to.

Okay I lied. What’s new.

Other things that piss me off without meriting too much thought: Old people. And teenagers. My colleagues. Um. Let’s see, have I left anyone out? No, wait, I think I can manage an entire article on any one of those subjects. So keep visiting for more updates. Either myself or that cunt AtraBilious will be posting every Tuesday, so god help you all. (No-one else gives a fuck.)

Now you can all fuck off and go somewhere else. I have no more rage that I need to sublimate into art just now. Tell your mom I said hi. To your dog.


[Originally posted on, Tuesday 04 March 2008.]


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