Tag Archives: Bullshit

Honesty is the Best Policy (only when you’re doing it for free and your opinion’s worth shit anyway.)

Since I’ve moved any new comics I do offline in favour of printing them up in The Abyss comic book (due out next month by the way plugplugplug) my internet consumption has shrunk dramatically to a few choice sites. Namely, this, this and this.

And, while I was on this straightened internet diet, I came across this post here by Eoin Butler which brings up a very, very good point. For those who can’t bare to navigate away I’ll include the most pertinent part here.

But as a journalist and blogger, I don’t have to worry about that. We consider it completely beyond the pale to submit our own peers to anything like the same level of scrutiny we hold musicians, let alone politicians. Think about it. When was the last time you heard one blogger openly criticising another blogger? I don’t mean respectfully disagreeing on a given point – I mean criticising the overall quality of another’s work? It simply never happens.

This had me nodding my head so spastically I actually gave myself an epileptic fit and swallowed my tongue.

If opinions are like assholes because everyone has one and they all stink then the Irish Blogoshphere is like a giant Harvey Norman full of butts. And all the butts are getting off with each other because they all think that everyone’s the finest thing they’ve ever seen.

Why are the bloggers here so cosy with each other? Is there some sort of blogger sleepover fun-a-palooza that goes on in Damien Mulleys garage? That I’m apparently never bloody invited to? I wouldn’t know any internet person if I saw them.

I’ve only met two other internet people and that’s Liam and Craig from the Comic Cast and, sexy and erotically frightening as that episode was, that’s it for me when it comes to Webbuddies. I mean for fuck’s sake, Bock the Robber could walk up to me on the street and be 20% more offensive than I thought was humanly possible and I wouldn’t know him from Adam, Eve, Moses or the Virgin fucking Mary herself.

I used to think that this, the idea that everyone know’s each other and doesn’t want to cause a fuss at the Xmas party, was why never a cross word was ever said. It’s not, though, because you never have to meet another blogger if you don’t want to. Just don’t go to the Irish Blog Awards.

So why the kid gloves? Here’s why. Convieniently numbered for your convenience. How convenient.

The reason why bloggers rarely row with each other are… [drum roll]

1: They potentially might need links (or have previously asked for a link) from that shite blog with the large readership that they now hate so they are reluctant to go there. This is a stick you would rather not be beaten with.

2: When you call a popular website crap, the Sycophant Squad descends and implies that it is you, in fact, and not their gloried master, that is the one who is crap. And there’s one of you. And, like, 400 of them. And being critical of another website might highlight how bad your writing is, because you have a throwing stones in glass houses complex that you just can’t quit, you sensitive fucker.

3: It’s the internet so no one cares what you think anyway.

So, like Eoin alluded to in his post, it is quite difficult to harshly criticise someone you might potentially meet walking down the street, even if that street is a virtual one. Because, your opinions, and how much of a cunt you are while expressing them, are the only ways you, as a writer, are perceived by the people who read your work.

You could be the soundest man ever to say “howya”, but if you write that all rapists are doing gods work in your column in the Irish Times you can take it for granted that most people are going to think you’re a big fat slobbering dickhead, with a twin pair of cocks molesting a puppy where your eyes should be.

It’s harder for journalists, because more often than not he or she does so under their own name, which means that any criticism that they do of a band, or a celebrity or a politician is counterbalanced by how likely they are to be percieved as a cunt by actual real people who could know and recognise you outside your bubble. It has to be a consideration, especially over something as marginal as a fucking band. Sure, you could get a job in Hotpress and, in your first review, call the Corona’s aural rapists that shouldn’t be allowed to eat the shit of La Roux’s latest opus but don’t be surprised if the Corona’s don’t want you to be their kids god parent.

And besides, only those with a psychopathic need for attention and skin thicker than Jade Goody’s mother are this much of a cunt under their own name (John Waters, Kevin Myers, I’m looking at you.).

If you’re cool with that though, cunt on brother! Just please please please have the balls to do it under your own name because, when you blog under a pseudonym you may as well be a donkey braying out in a field for all the weight your opinions are worth. No, your not some anonymous deepthroat exposing the worlds underbelly with your sparkling with. As far as I’m concerned, if you can’t put your name next to what you say, it’s worthless, no better than leaving “lolz cockz” anonymously in a comment section.

A quick look around the anonymous internet sites show in Ireland that these are the one’s more likely to be reactionary, nasty and have the word ‘cunt’ said more often than a gynecologist with tourettes syndrome.

Would Twenty Major or Bock the Robber be so gung-ho with their opinions if it were their real names in the headline?

So what’s my point? Anybody attacking any anonymous blog about the quality of their blog is more likely to do it anonymously from their own anonymous blog, making it worthless. Like two turds arguing over who’s shittier it just ends up doing the regular ol’ Internet Lol Cycle of going from hilarious to retarded in 3.5 posts.

Take for example, this Clash of the Internet Titans from earlier this year. Twenty VS Bock. So dramatic! Look at each tribes Sycophant Squads launching into each other with twin assaults of stuttering outrage, hyperbole and the heinous twins of SHOUTY CAPITALS and written sarcasm, actual sarcasms oft misunderstood brother. It’s like the Battle of Thermopylae with fat, socially maladjusted slobs, and nobody outside the 300 people reading the two blogs could give a shit.

Then, conversely, anyone blogging under their own name that isn’t insane just won’t be bothered attracting the ire of the SS because, hey, regardless of whether Captain MonkeyNinjaPirateStain is a talentless hack or not, who wants to scroll through 50 posts of hysterical drivel from people you’ll never meet calling you a cunt in 50 different ways just because you dared to question their Master’s titanic genius.

Who want’s that?


6 Degrees of Separation

Micheal Jacksons dead. You might have heard, I think it was in the news there a few days ago.

Anyway, I was talking to the wife about it and she said that she was 1 degree of separation away from Michael Jackson. What the shit? My wife, the lovely Meri, dated Shane Culkin (oldest brother of Macauley Culkin) back in the day. Even got invited to a motherfuckin’ Culkin family vacation that fuckin’ Michael Jackson was going to be at.

“Do you know what this means!?” I hear you scream, spraying spittle at the computer monitor and clubbing your cloven fists on the keyboard, “that means you’re only TWO real degrees of seperation away from Michael Jackson!!!!111!!!”

Believe me, I know. Now I don’t want to hear about your bullshit degrees of separation away from the King, like you once saw someone who really looked like him while Billie Jean was totally playing on the radio or went to see him in concert or any of that old shit.

I’m now The Man.

That is all.

Copperplate 12 pt Embossed

Reminds me of someone I used to know.

Hammercrane: Death Puncher, an Excerpt

Hammercrane jammed both his chrome desert eagle pistols out the window of his gleaming red dodge viper and sprayed hot metally death at the two jet black articulated trucks that hurtled after him down Freeway 101. The Columbian’s on board the trucks shot back with their AK47’s as the other lame cars on the freeway, like mini’s and shit, swerved out of the way to avoid the totally muscle car chase that was happening on totally the wrong side of the road.

“Roscoe, this is totally mental! You’re going to kill us both!”, screamed Rosalita. Her shirt was ripped and her boobs were sort of see-able although not totally. Roscoe surveyed her hotness and reassured her with a wink. “Shut the fuck up sizzle-tits, I’ve got death to attend to.”

Columbian bullets danced up and down the black tarmac as the Viper ate some serious road. The guys shooting the bullets were all shouting and stuff in Columbian as cars smashed off the trucks. They were high on cocaine and other drugs so they didn’t care that their rides were getting fucked up. Add the fact that Roscoe had the bosses laptop with all the drug records and the bosses babe who Roscoe had been secretly porking because he could and you had some seriously pissed of Mexicans.

“Shoot him essay!” shouted Danny Trejo as he slammed on the accelerator to draw the last bit of speed out of the rig. The other Columbian in the rig got his sniper rifle and smashed the window of the truck to get a better view of Roscoe’s super pimp ride. Wind whipped through his shiny black hair and mustache as he gazed through the scope and fired. The window smashed and Roscoe’s ride swerved wildly into the barrier scraping the sides!! Fuck!

“Fuck this shit baby!” wisecracked Roscoe as he got the car back under control. The back window was broken and he had just paid off this car, as he had said at length earlier. The bullet had grazed his shoulder and it was bleeding but he was like ‘whatever’. “DRIVE!” he shouted at Rosalita, grabbing her hands and shoving them on the wheel.
Roscoe hopped out the window and stood on top of the roof of the speeding viper and pulled both his chrome desert eagles out of their holsters. “See you in hell baby!” he screamed as he unloaded all the fury of his guns at the trucks. One trucks engine blew and it FLIPPED OFF THE ROAD INTO A  PASSING BLIMP! The explosion made all the cars on the road swerve to the left. The other truck, rocked by the explosion, flipped onto it’s side and started skidding along the road. Danny Trejo was like ‘aaarrrghhh!”. Roscoe JUMPED from the roof of the Dodge onto the cab of the sliding truck. Sparks flew all around as he landed with a thump on the rig and kicked the asshole who shot his car RIGHT IN THE EAR! “That’s for shooting my car, you prick!” shouted Roscoe. Danny Trejo hopped out of the rig – bear in mind it’s still sliding and shit – and stood there all like ‘you jerk’.

“You’re next Trejo” said Roscoe, all badass.
“I think you’ll find that it is YOU who is next, Detective Hammercrane. You never wondered what was in these trucks did you?” said Trejo, all confident and shit. Roscoe threw his gaze up the side of the rig. There, in big white letters, read “NINJA’S”.
“Have a nice death, you fucking bollix!!” screamed Trejo as he activated his jet pack and sped off into the sky laughing and pointing and laughing.

Roscoe readjusted his Aviator sunglasses as, like, SIXTY EIGHT NINJAS began to hop out of the side of the trucks back part-ripping the sides with their swords to make their escape. Detective Roscoe Hammercrane tore off his cool Hawaiin shirt and threw the guns off the side of the STILL SLIDING truck. Standing there all muscley and shit with only his shades and leather pants he waited for the ninjas to come. “BRING IT ON, ASSHOLES!!!!”

Hot N’ Cold (The Polka Mix)


My well documented addiction to this song just got worse.


Bad Ad Emporium

Fairy Dishwashing Tablets:

“Unfortunately you can’t get your scooter in”.

Somehow Fairy thought the sight of a clearly mentally retarded child trying to force his scooter into a dishwasher would make all the mums in Britain and Ireland collectively “aaaaaawwwwwwweeeee”, then go out and buy the bloody things when, in fact, it was more likely to illicit donations for Down Syndrome Ireland.

What were they thinking? That this shit was endearing? The oh so toothsome Mum at the end smiling wanly at her offsprings monkeyshines when, in reality, she was more likely to break down crying that she couldn’t stop smoking when she was pregnant.

Boots: Pill Swallowing

There are a few things, believe it or not, that I find quite difficult to do. Algebra for example, I just can’t do it. It completely escapes me. Another one, understanding how metal boats float? They’re made of metal! How are they not sinking?!

However, as dumbshit as those mental deficiencies may sound, I can at least hold onto one thing; a rock, if you would, in the ocean of mediocrity I currently find myself adrift in. I can swallow a fucking pill without gurning at the mirror like I was gulping down a 14-inch cock.

This ad raises numerous questions. Is this I-can’t-swallow-this-pill-because-I’m-a-dainty-precious-flower shit supposed to be cute? How do these girls eat? Do I have a 14-inch cock?

The answers to those questions are, in order, I suppose so, they don’t and they call me the Cockan the Barballsian. It’s that fucking big. [A further paragraph detailing my sexual prowess and detailing my genitalia in exact detail has been removed for space reasons. Email me for details]

Clearasil: May Cause Confidence/Rape Part 2

All right, first of all, I am well aware that I did these ads last month. And again, I too thought that I was done with them but then… then they upped the ante. The scene is laid out thusly, a flustered looking professor stumbles over a sentence in a half full class of college students. Then, like a flash, our hero stands up and, with the glare of the room on him, demands that said professor imagines him naked before turning to the clearly terrified girl next to him, whom he also demands to imagine him naked.

The idea of the ad, again, is based on the idea that, thanks to Clearasil, this previously shy boy’s inner douche was revealed to the world. The implication here is that everybody with acne is a mere wash of his or her face away from becoming a fucking Alpha Level shithead. Fuck. Off. Oh, and if you’re having trouble with this last bit you should go ahead and imagine me naked. Yeah, it’s that big.

Kalashnikow Must Die

Ok, first of all, let me put all my cards on the table, I’m a serious Red Bull man. A stout yeoman of the red nectar. I drink way too much of it, please stop me. Anyway,  I was wandering through my local Supervalu earlier today when I saw this.

picture-14This isn’t Red Bull. It’s something else. Something foreign.

Not that I’m worried, oh no, we’ve seen off the challenge of Burn, Boost and that Red Bear stuff they have in Aldi.

I hear-by announce a new campaign of rooting out this new Red threat. Let’s call it, Moloneyism.

Have you now, or have you ever been... a drinker of this shit?

"Have you now, or have you ever been... a drinker of this shit?"

Together we can root out and destroy this foreign threat. Remember; Good Americans Drink Red Bull. This also includes Irish people. You too.