Rambling Diatribe 5: Would A Fruit Basket Help?

So we're thinking about apologising for slavery now. And I for one couldn't be more behind the idea of apologising for something I didn't do. Fuck, while we're at it I'd like to apologise to the Russians for faking that moon landing and making you guys lose the cold war. Sorry, comrades.

The Great Fire of London - my bad again, sorry. The invention of Cancer, I don't know what I was thinking that day. The VW Beetle, old and new, shit...I'm lost for words on those two.

That time I tied a chick up and beat her until her eyes bled and she kept crawling round in circles crying until I accidentally suffocated her when trying to shut her up with a pillow...I'm sorry. Wait, that last one was me, so I'm not apologising. In fact, I'd do it again (in the unlikely event you're reading this, Chevaun, you know where to find me).

But if the honourable Mr. Blair wants to ride the apology wagon, perhaps he should start by apologising for the things he has done. Everything since 1997 would be a good place to start, he can work backwards from there if he has some spare time.

If that doesn't appeal, he could always just beat himself to death with a shoe, I'm a easy-going guy.

It seems like kind of a harsh light to shine on history though, judging people based on something that was fine by the moral standards of the day. I mean, I don't want people to be apologising in 200 years time for my not having viciously murdered Robbie Williams. In today's modern times of DVDs, MP3s and digital hard-drives, there's a good chance that some of his dirge will be floating around the world like time-capsule turds for all eternity, and I can't face death with a smile if I'm going to be judged like that.

"And today, the people of Earth issued a blanket apology for Elton John, Madonna and Graham Norton. Unappeased, the Zorgonians refused to lift their war ultimatum and recall their death-ships."

And don't you cunting dare get on your "but morals are better now, we've moved on" whiny fucking high-horse, the pope has killed more people in Africa by a few powers of ten than were ever affected by slavery. How do you fancy your descendents apologising for your part in that genocide?

It's going to take more than a glittery card, that's for sure. Plus I checked and they don't even do a "sorry my ancestors wiped out your entire race because they were lazy and stupid" motto. Note to the Hallmark movers and shakers; a dog looking sad on the front would be a good option, a doghouse in the background would be ideal. One for every occasion my arse, you cocks.

"Yeah, thank fuck we don't enslave the darkies now, civilised and progressive thinking fuckers that we are. We let them die a noble death from starvation, AIDS and Malaria. Let's all do our civilised nation holding hands dance! Come on Mtuele, get up off the floor and join our dance...Mtuele? Mtuele?"

And up front, miming with a guitar? Oh look, it's Bono! I wonder how many African kids he could have helped out instead of running that pathetic "get my hat back" campaign. Every other sentence that little shit-weasel says is "something must be done", and just look what must be done - Bono must have his hat.

Thank fuck it wasn't a jumper, he'd be stomping over piles of dead Kenyans, battering in heads with his guitar and humming to himself "...no I still...haven't found...". I guess a man does have to take Pride in his appearance but the most noble thing that poison dwarf could do is jump into a wood-chipper and donate his ground up internals to the Ethiopians. What a beautiful day that would be for mankind in general (Ok, I'll stop).

So I have a message for the people of the year 2200 reading this now. I would apologise for my part in not supergluing Bono to the front of a train with the brakes disabled, but I won't. Because one day I'll meet the little fucker and do the decent thing. You owe me one, future generations.

Peter O'Phile's Supermarket Slaughterhouse

Supermarkets, the highest concentration of cunts that can be found anywhere on this planet outside of America and Belgium. So necessary for the survival of today's food eating man, yet so lacking in that they don't sell guns (except possibly in America).

Sadly though, only the half of the UK population which is currently wasting its life away on benefits can afford the luxury of visiting everyday, and since you can read you probably aren't one of them. Not sure how to maximise your cunt/visit ratio? Well now help is at hand, with the Peter O'Phile guide to pissing off everyone you come across.

Step 0 - Proper Preparation Prevents Something Or Other
Make sure you write a list of all the things you need, because you should always advertise that you are a moron by wandering around clutching a shitty piece of paper in your six fingered grasp. Try not to drop it too many times, even if you have to concentrate really hard.

Bonus points for getting your wife to write the list for you, because you can't even be trusted to buy food. I hope she put directions to get home on the back, else you're lost somewhere on fucked street for sure. Actually, I hope instructions on how to start the car are there somewhere too, you're clearly one brain short of human.

Step 1 - Arrive In Style
Park across two spaces. This is mandatory because you have such a fucking awesome car that you can't let any cunt park near it and risk spoiling the paintwork with their inferior car's shadow*.

Bonus points for parking across two disabled spots, double bonus points if you're in a Saxo with bits of odd-shaped plastic stuck to it with selotape and a neon light glued to the bottom.

Super bonus points for managing to park across four spots like the retarded old cunt I saw a couple of days ago.

Step 2 - Make An Entrance
Make sure you tie your dog up outside, after all, you haven't got a home to leave the little fucker in, and how would it piss people off when it's locked away in the car?

And before anybody points out that leaving a dog in a hot car is the equivalent to roasting it, remember to add barbeque sauce to your shopping list and stop fucking whining. Pissy little bastard dogs, I'd roast the cunting lot of them.

Bonus points for leaving it a bowl of water for me to tread in. Super bonus points if the bowl is just out of the dog's reach.

Step 3 - Nobody Likes A Loner
Nobody wants to go to the supermarket alone and thus keep the number of pricks aimlessly wandering the aisles to a minimum. I recommend that you take at least five kids and two wives in tow.

If you don't have enough kids, try Catholicism, or just steal some from a nearby playground. If you don't have enough wives, try Mormonism, or just steal some from a nearby maternity ward, where they should already be drugged up and in wheelchairs for your convenience.

Bonus points if you brought the old lady with a zimmer frame and insist on walking alongside her the entire time you are there, thus blocking an entire aisle in the most efficient way possible, with minimum human outlay.

Triple bonus points for discussing whether you want eight bags of oven chips or nine with your fat friend for quarter of an hour (during which time the poor starving bitch eats a whole bag of them, wrapper and all).

Step 4 - Phone A Friend
...and chat about shit in a loud voice. This achieves several things all in one easy stage:
1) Nobody thinks you have no friends
2) Nobody thinks you have less initiative than a dead sock.
3) Nobody thinks you are too stupid to work out what you want before you get somewhere.
4) Nobody thinks you are a tosser.

Bonus points if you're actually talking to the speaking clock, which is what everyone assumes anyway.

Mega bonus points if you haven't got a phone, or use the latest Bluetooth "Cunt-04" headsets so that you look like a nutter talking to the invisible shop fairies.

Step 5 - Shop Smart, Stupid (1)
Why wait in the queue like a dummy when you've finished shopping, when you could simply get in the queue and let someone else bring all your shit to you?

Today's modern cunt needs to economise, maximise, efficientise and synergise at 110 percent if they're going to really push the wanker-boundaries to the max. Those people waiting for your mate to fetch fifteen bags of oven chips from the freezer section are only looking forward to death anyway, let the fuckers stand around for a while.

Bonus points for getting your accomplice to take some items back at the same time. Super bonus points for berating him when he gets the wrong brand of oven chips, as though they aren't all from the same fucking factory.

Step 6 - Shop Smart, Stupid (2)
Fuck the normal checkouts, head to the cigarette counter. If they didn't intend for people to buy twenty bags of oven chips from there, they wouldn't have made it big enough. Oh wait, they didn't. Fuck them over anyway.

Bonus points for not buying cigarettes, although you should...and smoke them all at once.

Step 7 - Shop Smart, Stupid (3)
Too stupid to use a cash machine? Why not buy a stick of gum and pay by switch. If you can squirt the words "ten pounds please" out of your breathing-hole, you'll be well on your way to getting a sweet payout...in cuntishness.

Bonus points for changing your mind on how much cash you want five times or more.

Step 8 - Make Friends
Hey, that cashier isn't just a robot there to scan barcodes and attempt to count money, it's a person too. Why not hold everyone up for a few minutes whilst you tell her all about your piles, the weather outside and what you're having for dinner (as a hint, she could probably guess from the thirty bags of oven chips you just bought).

Bonus points for dragging another cashier into the conversation, thus holding up a queue you aren't even part of.

Step 9 - There Is No Step Nine
Congratulations, you are now well on your way to being a complete cunt. Just the other day, I saw a bad-parking-dog-tied-up-zimmer-frame-change-dropper-dull-chat combo that literally took my breath away. Reckon you can beat it? Have fun!


*In reasonable moments, I realise that this is to avoid retarded kids humping dents into your car doors. You're still a tosser though.

WHORE 10/11/06

I'm kind of upset that nobody noticed the date on the title was a month out last time round, meaning that the horoscope was completely wrong. Don't worry though, I've double checked everything and this one is 100% accurate.

Taurus:
This week you are going to buy some bad acid (the fact that Mikey was sitting in the middle of the room, pointing at the ceiling and crying when you went round there should have been a bit of a giveaway, you fucking idiot).

Instead of hallucinating interesting colours and shapes, you'll just see a world of grey land, sky and sea, much like before you dropped the tab. And instead of realising that we are all parts of the same interconnected matter, simply experiencing our collective environment from different perspectives, like leaves on different branches of a tree, you'll come to the conclusion that the day to day reality we perceive is actually the real one.

You'll ponder this new finding for a minute. A world that encourages, pushes and even forces people into 9-5 drudgery, a universe that seems to want to turn its inhabitants into dullard wage slaves? A realm which allows the existence of Heat magazine, stretch limos, D.F.Fucking.S and their half price until 2999 fucking offers, Andii Peters, the pope, Linda Cunting-Shithound Barker, AIDS, Cherie Blair and Belgium?

Fuck being interconnected matter with this shitfest, you'll think, I'd be better off alone against the universe, especially as it seems to be watching me with evil intent, experimenting with my tolerance of the shoddy reality it chose to create. Fuck this universe's reality and fuck the horse that this universe's reality rode in on, you'll think.

You'll decide to end it all by jumping off the nearest bridge (although you see it as a bridge, it's actually a multi-storey car park in the town centre), leaving a suicide note explaining that the universe knows why this had to happen and perhaps it might consider not Creatoring if it's going to be such a poor workman. Suggest that it stick to short board surfing in its own transcendental plane and trying to look up other universes' skirts, which is probably the best it can hope for.

Sadly, the universe (which really was fucking with you all along) will change the coroner's perception of your note so that he just reads a lot of stuff about cats and random nonsense about being able to fly. The Sun will carry the four page headline "FLY? WHY?" and the pictures of your semi-splattered corpse will be used as anti-drug propaganda for the next couple of years.

Try not to wave your arms around too much or the amateur camcorder footage will look like you're actually trying to take off. Face your fate with arms held stiff by your sides, or perhaps with one hand raised in a Nazi salute if you're feeling risque (you will be).

Capricorn:
You are a weasel faced lardcunt and the world hates knowing you are walking around on top of it.Tread carefully this week.


PO'P Note: Woah, that came out kind of depressing, but hey, I'm just the messenger...Enjoy the weekend, however you perceive it.

WHORE 03/10/06

Ever since a load of astrologers decided that Pluto has shrunk below the size of a planet, the mainstream astronomers have been getting those vital horoscopes all wrong. But never fear, Peter O'Phile is here to correct that, with the PO'P Weekly Horoscope Of Remarkable Exactitude.

Capricorn:
Today you are going to die in a car crash. Ironically, it will happen as you are rushing to buy clean underwear because you read in your horoscope that you were going to die in a car crash and your mother always told you to make sure you had clean underwear in case you died in a car crash (actually she used to mention getting run over by a bus, but you'll figure it's the same basic scenario).

Send a couple of text messages to say goodbye to your loved ones (don't phone, your wife is going to take the news pretty hard as she's in bed sucking your second best friend Ron dry the moment you have to swerve into the bus lane and the last thing you need when facing up to your imminent death at the hands of a drunk Elvis impersonator is a wailing wayward woman) and it's time to head off and meet your destiny.

At least you won't need to worry about the twenty grand you ran up on your credit card in Brighton last weekend, leave it for that cheating slut to deal with. What's a man with a pelvis about to be broken in eight places need ladyboys for anyhow?

Why not ride unbuckled for once, it's not like a seatbelt will help when your head gets popped off by that stop sign. Bon voyage!


Libra:
Your dad is going to die in a car crash that happens because he just read that he was going to die in a car crash. You might want to put an extra couple of Logic Diodes into that Cause/Effect machine you've been working on as a birthday present for him (not that there's any rush to finish it now anyway). Try not to blame yourself too much, these things happen in the pursuit of Science, and as your mother always says "you can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs".

Although she does all the cooking so you have to take her word for it (you really can't make an omelette, but let's see that loose legged bitch throw together an Entropy Reversal Wand), it's much better advice than the stuff she's been spouting lately about wearing clean underwear the day you die.

Happy inventing, and try to accept your new father, Ron as best you can.


PO'P Note: I have a load of sponges soaked in petroleum, ready and waiting for some fuckers to attempt a fireworks display anywhere near my house this weekend. Why not try your luck, you feeble fuckers.