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Latest Chris & Trilby comic: no. 0035 - Heavens To Betsy

29/10/04: Sit Down And Shut Up

Well, christ, I've just got to tell you what happened last night.

I've been going down an open mic comedy bar every now and again for the last few months, 'cos I've been thinking about having a crack at it myself, and yesterday I went there with new anxiety, because I had put my name down for a slot.

Now, try to understand precisely to what degree I was filling my pants all of yesterday. I'm primarily a writer of comedy. I've practised stand-up before, but only alone, in the bathroom, with the door shut in case anyone hears. So I didn't exactly have optimum faith in myself as a performer. In fact, let's not mince it, I was absolutely fucking terror stricken as I made my way down to the bar last night. I'd rehearsed my material but I had next to no idea if it was funny or not. I had no idea if the sort of stuff I post on this website is genuinely amusing or if people just laugh sarcastically and roll their eyes to each other. To cap it all, I'm a whiney twentysomething Englishman in a bar full of rowdy drunk Australians who are all making jokes about smoking, racism and wifebeating.

For the record, I was planning on giving them edited highlights of my Troy article from a while back, with some funny bits I have since thought of added.

Anyway, I get there and learn I'm sixth on the bill, and I sit to watch the other comics and gain confidence in myself. Confidence is the last thing on my mind, however, as I witness comic after comic stand up, get heckled, and be drowned out by the noise of the clientele. One bloke came up, made one joke and buggered off.

I'm not worried, though, 'cos I'm wearing my lucky hat.

Then the security man tells me to take it off, 'cos it's a management rule.


The fourth comic has just got off stage to the supreme indifference of a mean-spirited audience, and I'm not having a good time. The fifth bloke is up next, and I'm after that. The MC is half-way through linking to the fifth act, and I've already decided. During the next set, I'm going to go to the MC and strike my name off the list. Then I'm going to go home and cry me a river.

"Would you please welcome," says the emcee, "Mr. Ben Croshaw!"



The introductory music. The standard applause. Lurch up on stage. Shake the MC's hand, take the mike, move the mike stand aside. I'm doing this all on automatic. I can feel my legs shaking uncontrollably, imperceptible to the audience.

I become aware that, with the spotlight in my face, I can't actually see any of the audience. I take this as a good thing, then I launch into my well-rehearsed routine.

God, my voice sounds stupid.

Stupid and English.

First two jokes and no laughs. Hell, I don't feel too bad about it. With the decrease in visibility, I could just be talking to a wall, and not a dissatisfied and hostile audience.

I tell one of my new ones. It's really bad. "Helen of Troy eloped with the Trojan envoy, Paris," I say. "Still, what can you expect of the French?"

I get a laugh.

And I mean a laugh, singular, for it was only one person. I gesture in a vaguely thankful manner in the direction it came from.

I do another new bit, where I start comparing Helen of Troy to the current Queen of England. Suddenly, I'm getting laughs, and the bar's a lot quieter than I remember. I'm so nervous that I'm shaking and sweating and barking all my lines into the mic, but as soon as I realise that the big empty void in front of me is actually fucking laughing, I start feeling a lot better about myself. I do the Trojan Horse stuff. That's the end of what I had planned, because I kind of assumed I'd bomb. So the set ends somewhat awkwardly, and as soon as the surprised audience starts clapping, I'm regretting not adding a bit of my general stuff, but I think I've had enough for a debut. I get off stage, watch a couple more acts, then go home, head buzzing.

So that was that, the fulfillment of several years of wonderment and a couple of weeks of extreme shit-molesting stress. And I'm sorry about this post, I hate bloggy updates more than anything, but I really just wanted to tell someone. Anyone. Everyone.

Well, since I'm already blogging my little heart out, I suppose I could also mention that I lodged my permanent residence application yesterday. Two thousand bucks, that cost me. Two grand to get a bureaucrat to look at a piece of paper. So now I'm as skint as a big skint thing. I'm sure I need not remind you that you can still click here to donate and become the highlight of my day! And advertising, don't forget. The Exterminatus Now banner should probably have gone down a while back, but I confess I (a) keep forgetting and (b) can't be arsed.

Oh yeah, and since I'm in such a good mood, I'm trying to restart Chris and Trilby. Episode 0034 is up!

- Yahtzee

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22/10/04: I Say I Want A Revolution

What the hell happened to mankind? There doesn't seem to be any spark left in us at all.

The passion, that's what I'm talking about. True, blood-boiling, searing passion; what the fuck happened to it? I'm not talking about the kind of passion that goes on between man and woman as they overcome adversity in the latest unnecessary Hollywood remake, not the kind of watery passion Mr. Darcy had for Lizzie Bennett's sweet patootie, I'm talking about the sheer unbridled animal rage passion that every man seemed to have in the olden days.

Take the siege of Troy, for example. A man's wife runs off with some greasy foreigner, fine, that's a standard enough story, but what does the man do? He doesn't chalk it up to experience and blame himself for marrying the town bicycle! He damn well scrapes together the biggest army the world has ever seen and goes to kick Troy's collective arse. Che Guevara led a revolution, then when he was finished, he went over to other countries and tried to lead more revolutions. He wasn't content to sit in the palaces of the fallen drinking champagne from the rectums of beautiful women! There was a whole collective evil empire out there to thwart, and he was going to make a difference! What the fuck happened to the passion of old?

Everything seems to be so backed up in bureaucracy and hesitation. You wouldn't have anything like the siege of Troy nowadays. If the Queen of England was kidnapped by the French and taken back to France, the first thing Tony Blair would do - besides click his nasty little heels with joy - is go on TV and say "This is an act of war we will not tolerate! You can be pretty sure we'll definitely consider thinking about sending a negotiator over at some point within the next few years!"

Nowadays, everyone seems to be emotionally dead, like zombies in pinstripe suits. Trudging to work each day to make a living, queueing up at McDonalds for their daily fuel intake, coming home to vegetate in front of the TV for hours on end. Our lives and opinions are steered every second of every day by media influences and subtle marketing strategies, all of which directly and indirectly for the sake of draining more and more money from our pockets to give to corporations who already have more money than they know what to do with. The funny thing is, probably every single one of these people would agree with these sentiments, but none of them would ever do a damn thing about it. Fuck, neither would I. I'm just hoping I can stir people up with language and hope someone else does all the work, and that's a really shitty attitude.

Here's how it usually goes when you try to stir up unrest in today's era.

A: The world is corrupt and ruled by profit-obsessed corporations who treat human beings as little other than big consuming mouths wearing designer jeans full of cash!
B: I completely agree!
A: Ordinary people are intentionally forced into boring ruts, throwing their entire lives away for the benefits of their managers, just to be able to feed and clothe themselves!
B: I completely agree!
A: It's about time we had a revolution!
B: I completely agree!
A: I'm going to start a revolution!
B: I support that!
A: Would you like to join my revolution?
B: No thank you, Pets Win Prizes is on!

It's the entertainment industry, of course, which is at the core of the problem. I won't point the finger specifically at television or anything else, because that's the sort of thing Columbine parents do when they're not suing the games industry for original sin or whatever the travesty du jour is. The entertainment industry is designed to keep the general public doped up, happy and relaxed so they won't entertain silly thoughts of storming the Winter Palace. Well, I say, throw down your remote controls and your Playstation controllers! Resist the doping process!

We, as a species, are in dire need of being bored. There's too much TV and cinema and everything else to prevent us from being bored nowadays, but boredom is something we desperately need. Boredom is the root of all revolution. And if you're thinking you don't fancy the idea of being bored when Half-Life 2 is on the horizon for all those moneyed fuckwits who can afford a suitably omnipotent computer to run the dratted thing on, then consider the following diagram:

So, you have no excuse. The silent majority already know that the world is in need of change, and soon. So stop reading this stupid website and start taking some god damn action against this repressive capitalistic society. Stop reading... NOW. I mean NOW. Okay, you seriously should stop reading now and get on with that whole revolution thing we talked about. There's no point in reading any further, there aren't any more jokes or anything.


Some point around eight, probably.

I don't want to miss the Simpsons.

- Yahtzee

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17/10/04: Dizzy Downward Spiral

There's this new online encyclopaedia (or 'wiki' as they're apparently called these days, I was not aware that the Ewok language has started to permeate the collective consciousness) filled exclusively with content about video games, and it's called State. And yes, they ARE open to suggestions for a better name.

One thing that struck me as I rifled through the A-Z was an apparent focus more on old games than the modern ones, and I was amused to find a section on Dizzy, the long-running series of Commodore 64 adventures featuring as their protagonist an ambulatory egg with a fixed grin and a death wish. This is a topic I've covered before on the site, which is why I feel it's worth covering again in frankly exHAUSTive detail. I remind you that this is MY SITE. If the content isn't catering to your own personal tastes you can fuck off to Maddox and try to bottle and sell his urine or something.

The Dizzy section on 'State' was woefully bare in that it listed all the titles but left the rest to one's own sense of nostalgia, so I'm going to do the world a service and provide a little profile for them all. Let's dive naked together into a rich and sensual lake of yolk and meringue!

Dizzy smiling bravely despite having been sneezed on.
* Dizzy

QUEST: The game that started it all involves our hatchery hero deposited inexplicably in a strange world (you'll find this plot device resurrected frequently in this article) where he must do battle with an almighty wizard named Zaks, who is eleven times his height and can shoot lightning from his fingertips. Kind of like how the climactic scenes with the evil emperor in Return of the Jedi would have gone if Luke Skywalker was a woodlouse.

SIDEQUEST: None, because they were obviously still settling into the whole 'adventure with a piece of breakfast food wearing boxing gloves who enjoys sommersaulting aimlessly into certain death' genre. FUN FACT: the protagonist for this game was originally going to be a strip of bacon wearing tapshoes with a lightning rod strapped to his back.

AND ANOTHER THING: Parts of this game were based on the poem 'The Green Eye of the Yellow God' by J. Milton Hayes. This is why games were so much better in the olden days. You'd never see a few levels in the latest Tomb Raider sequel reference Marcel Proust's A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu.

* Treasure Island Dizzy

QUEST: Dizzy is shipwrecked and washed up on a little island in the middle of the ocean. But there only seems to be ocean on one side of it, so I suppose it's more of a peninsula than an island. But when you cross the ocean you discover that it's only about a hundred feet across, making it a river. So, from an initial promise of 'sunbleached exotic desert island', we have gone instead to Hackney Marshes.

SIDEQUEST: Collect thirty gold coins in order to pay the extremely stringent customs official two rivers across from where you start. This meant traipsing back and forth avoiding all the deadly traps and monsters with your horrendous aimless sommersaulting, made all the more frustrating by...

AND ANOTHER THING: YOU ONLY HAD ONE LIFE. Good GOD. There were traps it was virtually impossible to predict would occur, Dizzy still jumped like a retard who has become uncomfortably self-aware and seeks only to end their unbearable retard existence, and there was even a bit where you walked from one completely safe room to one that was completely UNDERWATER, and you only had ONE LIFE to survive this ordeal with. Perhaps Codemasters were trying to teach us a valuable lesson that one has only one chance in the great game of human existence, and to squander it is the biggest tragedy of all. Fuck that - if I want to learn that sort of crap, I'll go and watch something directed by Sam Mendes.

* Fantasy World Dizzy

QUEST: Dizzy's little blissfully ignorant world was really starting to take shape, because suddenly he had a whole family of little egg-shaped freak things and, importantly, a girlfriend to rescue. Some evil dark overlord captured Daisy - Dizzy's ovum of choice - and imprisoned her in one castle while Dizzy was imprisoned in another. The weird thing is, the overlord in question is never seen or confronted at all. It's as if capturing two chicken ovulations was the last thing on his checklist before he left for OverLordCon 2000 in Seattle.

SIDEQUEST: Again, gather thirty gold coins, this time to assure Daisy that you can be a loving, providing husband. For god's sake, Daisy love, the guy just braved hostile lands and rescued you from certain breakfast! Now is not a good time to discuss the mortgage! To put this into context, imagine that you've just rescued your girlfriend from a gang of drug dealers, but she refuses to come home until you've picked up the dry cleaning. And imagine that the dry cleaners' is on the top of Mount Doom.
In fantasy world, mountains hover eighty feet above the ground.

AND ANOTHER THING: Maybe I'm just looking too hard for something to make fun of, but it always seemed to me that Dizzy's family (the 'Yolk Folk', arf arf fucking arf) each seemed to exhibit a different form of drug abuse. 'Denzil' was the party man too hopped up on goofballs to realise he was standing around in an evil troll castle two feet away from an unguarded fireplace. 'Dozy' appeared to slip constantly into shallow comas. 'Dylan' might as well have been wearing Rasta dreads and a rainbow vest. And Grand Dizzy... well, er... old people take lots of pills, don't they.

* Magicland Dizzy

QUEST: Having rescued his girlfriend/sister/stomach-turning combination of the two in the last game, Dizzy must now rescue all of the hitherto-mentioned friends of his through a variety of methods and defeat Zaks once again into the bargain. You have to eventually make a deal with Satan to achieve this, who turns out to be a pretty okay guy. It's the high-protein equivalent of Dr. Faustus.

SIDEQUEST: Gather twenty diamonds to give to Satan, presumably because Satan wants to accessorise the Cracks of Gehenna. Or maybe he just liked making my fucking life difficult. I feel I should also mention 'not shoving an electric drill through my eye socket after being killed while trying to ride a goddamned shark fin across a moat for the eleventy-billionth time', which is one of the tougher sidequests in this series.

AND ANOTHER THING: A lot of the Dizzy games contained references to bedtime stories, but Magicland went the whole hog. There were situations taken directly from the Billy Goats Gruff, Alice in Wonderland, Aladdin, the Sword in the Stone, the Frog Prince and even Elvira: Mistress of the Dark, although when I was going through puberty that was a different kind of bedtime story altogether.

* Dizzy: Prince of the Yolkfolk

QUEST: Continuing the storybook theme, our hero must awaken Daisy from magical sleepytime and banish an evil troll from the kingdom. There was some other antagonist responsible for the magical sleepytime in question, but once again this person is mentioned only in the manual and is significantly absent from the game itself. Either evil sorcerors are on a level with the Royal Family in terms of how often they go on holiday, or the programmers didn't have time between their frequent drinking binges to draw proper sprites for them.

Daisy, top left, looks like my fucking mum.
SIDEQUEST: Collect twenty cherries so that Daisy can make Grand Dizzy a delicious pie. Yes, Daisy is unwilling to leave her dungeon in hostile enemy territory until she can be in a position to bake pudding as soon as they get home. Dizzy, do yourself a favour and hook up with some lower-maintenance gal. Someone who knows how to shop in the produce section of the supermarket, where cherries generally aren't hidden behind fence posts or balanced precariously on top of spike traps.

AND ANOTHER THING: So the king knights Dizzy and declares him Prince of the Yolkfolk. But I didn't think it was possible for a king to simply declare who was a prince. I thought you had to be born one? Dizzy should surely be a Knight of the Yolkfolk, although this is all academic because the King only rules about forty screens of kingdom and the Yolkfolk village is somewhere outside his jurisdiction. So I don't know what the hell he was playing at. We only have his word for it that he even is the king. He could have been a hobo who fell into a dumpster outside a costume shop.

* Spellbound Dizzy

QUEST: Finally, Dizzy gets transported to a mysterious land, and it's entirely his own fault. Something to do with misreading an ancient book of spells, but our hero and all his parasitic chums have been teleported to some arse of a place, and it's up to him, working all on his own as usual, to bring them back. Something tells me that, if Dizzy ever got fed up and left, the entire economy and governmental system of the Yolkfolk would fall apart, since he seems to be the only egg among them whose wellies are not nailed permanently to the floor.

SIDEQUEST: You have to gather five magic stars for each person you want to teleport back to Egg Central. So we've had stars, coins, diamonds and cherries. Sounds like the suits of a set of tarot cards that fell on the floor and got mixed up with a set of those playing cards with naked women on.

AND ANOTHER THING: There's one more Dizzy adventure game, Crystal Kingdom Dizzy, but I'm not going to cover it in detail except to mention that it's the first one where Dizzy finally gets to change direction in mid-sommersault. But the feature came too late. Dizzy's uncontrollable poinging had become a part of the experience. All I could think of as I played was that the character had suddenly lost his deliriously suicidal charm.

And now, the somewhat misguided arcade spin-offs!

* Fast Food Dizzy

It's Pac-man. With Dizzy. I really wish I could say there was more to it than that, but there wasn't. You ate pills and were chased by ghosts. Oh wait, I think I remember that the ghosts had feet. So it was completely different to Pac-man, after all. I mean, feet!

* Dizzy Down the Rapids

It's Toobin'. With Dizzy. I really wish I could say there was more to it than that, but there wasn't. You sailed down a river on a raft thing, avoiding things. Dizzy never seemed to have a good time when water was involved, as our next entry confirms:

* Bubble Dizzy

Finally, something original. Cast to the very bottom of an undersea trench, Dizzy had to make use of his hitherto unrealised incredibly large lung capacity to escape, by jumping onto upwardly-mobile bubbles. The bubbles didn't last very long before bursting, and therein lay the challenge. Interesting to note how Dizzy is somehow dense enough to sink like a stone - presumably someone hard-boiled him at one point - but he can somehow still be propelled upwards by sitting on an air pocket the size of a marble.
Guess what's going on, win a prize!

* Panic Dizzy

The Dizzy equivalent of one of those toys you give three-year-olds that consist of jamming colourful, oddly-shaped pegs through a series of correspondingly-shaped holes. Not as fun as it sounds. Could only be as fun as it sounds if the hypothetical peg and hole were both made of extra-squeaky polystyrene.

* Kwik Snax

Just too stupid to talk about, which may or may not be a cunning ruse to disguise the fact that I can't for the life of me remember anything about it.

- Yahtzee

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10/10/04: Quantum Meep


Come on, guys, what the hell happened? Three or four donations then poof, no more. Is that the whole extent to which you love me? I know I said you can click on the ads to help the site, but that money goes straight to Chefelf to pay for bandwidth costs and his new white floppy hats. Only donations and independent ad revenue goes into my pocket. Bandwidth is covered, sure, but it'd be nice to be able to pay for some advertising on some popular site, or buy myself a takeaway every now and again. All Major Credit Cards Accepted!

Okay, guilt trip over. I should probably warn everyone that today's update is going to be pretty intellectual with a lot of talk of complicated scientific theories. So, for stupid people, I made an alternative update, which you can read by clicking here. If you find yourself unintimidated by my smarty man tough talk, stay right where you are.

I read about something that really caught my interest the other day: the Quantum Suicide Theory. Warned you.

I just found it a really cool idea. Here's how it goes:

What the hell does this mean? SCIENCE, AND LOTS OF IT!
The Quantum Suicide Hypothesis
As presented in pink text

Let's pretend that a man is in a desert standing next to a huge bomb that's about to go off. Chances are, the bomb will explode and he will die. In ten million cases out of ten million and fifty, the man is going to be killed in the blast.

BUT - what with the infinite number of scenarios inherent in quantum theory playing out at the same time, there must be alternate universes in which the man somehow DOES survive. Maybe the bomb fails to go off. Maybe he defuses it by chance. Maybe he gets a safe distance away. Maybe the Crow brings him back to life in order to seek justice against bombs everywhere. The point is, in some form or another he continues living.

Since it is pretty much assumed by this theory that it is impossible to destroy a person's consciousness, the consciousness of all the versions of the man who got themselves killed all instantly converge in the reality where the man survived. So, from the point of view of the man, whatever scenario he was destined for - death or survival - he would always, from his point of view, survive, because the dying consciousnesses instantly switch over to the living ones.

Now, I think that's a fantastic possibility. Whatever happens in life, you will always switch over at the point of death to another version of your life where you somehow survived. Intriguing! When I was a teenager... ha ha ha ha. Sorry. Oh boy. 'When I was a teenager'. I love saying that. I love not being fucking seventeen anymore. Being an adult is so fucking sweet!

Sorry, I'll start again. When I was a teenager, I went through the usual suicidal phase that all middle-class nerdy teenagers do - every single other middle-class nerd I've spoken to on the internet has had a suicidal phase, it's like the middle-class have some completely different form of puberty that starts off with you wanting to cut yourself and ends with you buying your first packet of Pot Pourri, or something - and on a couple of occasions I was right at the point of taking the final step forwards and the resultant five hundred steps downwards. But I decided against it and went home. But here's the cool part - maybe I did kill myself. In fact, scratch the maybe, I DEFINITELY killed myself in trillions of alternative realities, not some metaphorical killing some small part of my innocence nancy-boy way but the whole skull-exploding brain firework display shebang, but my consciousness just switched straight over to some other reality where I decided not to, and I was none the wiser!

And with the trillions of possibilities inherent in quantum theory, I'm getting killed literally every single fucking second of the day, always switching over afterwards to the reality in which I survived and my consciousness continued living on.

Now that I've realised this, suddenly life seems a lot sweeter! As long as there remains even the slightest, infitesimal possibility of my surviving every dangerous situation I enter, I'm fucking indestructible! Maybe from the point of view of other people I'd be killed, in a hundred messy ways, but from my point of view - the only one that counts - I'd live on! If someone fires at me, it'll always miss! If I fall off a bridge, there'll always be a lorryload of mattresses passing underneath! If I jam my fingers in an electrical socket, swallow cyanide, hang myself and release an angry tiger all at the same time, then the power will suddenly be cut off, the tiger will accidentally bite through the rope and the cyanide will come flying out of my gullet as soon as I hit the floor! I could stick my fucking head in a blender and causality would still find a way to muscle me through!

Of course, the downside to the quantum suicide theory is that I leave behind a million billion quantum realities' worth of grieving readers and relatives to feel guilty about, who weren't experiencing life from my point of view and as such weren't fortunate enough to board the quantum suicide train to the more fortunate version of events. And then there's the fact that I'll never be able to kill myself if I ever really wanted to. And then, of course, there still remains the issue of what happens when you finally find yourself, no doubt at the age of one hundred and twelve, facing a death from which there is absolutely no possibility of escape, assuming no-one invents an immortality device in the next sixty-odd years.

The idea of consciousness being indestructible lends itself then to the idea of reincarnation, and that seems like a total bum deal to me. I mean, I did alright in this incarnation; I'm intelligent, talented, incredibly modest, and I grew up in a supportive environment that wasn't too short on cash. I'm not sure I want to risk taking another roll on the dice of fate. Next time I might come back as a blithering idiot, born to a fundamentalist Christian family. And the next thing you know, I get elected President of the United States of America.

- Yahtzee

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5/10/04: Capital FUN-ishment

I think it's pretty weak that, in a lot of American states, you get killed if you kill someone else. I mean, blimey, pretty much the first thing they teach you at school after braining some kid with a gym mat is that two wrongs don't make a right - except in maths - so why is it alright for George Bush to stuff his murderers with electricity up the dilly-o morning, noon and night?

It seems to me that the idea behind execution is that the subject is just too incurably fucked in the head to be allowed to live. But that's a load of old bum. Most people who kill don't do it because they're evil, or anything, I mean, you don't generally see people dragging dead prostitutes from an alley, rubbing their hands and cackling with glee. People who kill just weren't brought up to understand that a lot of people find having their heads spiked with tyre irons rather objectionable. Jeffrey Dahmer killed and ate people as a response to finding them physically attractive. I think that's kind of adorable. He's like one of those dopey hopeless romantics from American sit-coms.

"How was your date, Jeffrey?"

"Ah, terrible! It started well, but then she tripped and fell into my mouth and I sort of ate her."

"Oh, Jeffrey! Will you ever be lucky in love?"

When you think about it, when you overlook the ingrained taboos of society and think for your own fucking self for once, it doesn't make much sense that murder is illegal when we still have no idea what death IS, exactly. For all we know the human body is merely a stopping-off point where we learn wisdom and patience in preparation for the next, ultimate state of existence, beings of pure light, at one with the universe and with minds encompassing a thousand galaxies. And for all we know, you only get to do all this if you die before you turn 40. In that case, being murdered could be the greatest thing anyone ever does for you. Admittedly there's no reason for assuming any of this is true, but then there's no reason for assuming that our lives are governed by a magical man in the clouds who really hates gay people, either.

And even if you give the old 'but a loved one was taken away from their families causing enormous grief' shit, I could point out that the world is fantastically overcrowded - a problem not helped at all by the Christian idea that there's no such thing as too many kids - with not enough resources to go round, so by killing a random stranger I may have made his wife blub for a few weeks but I have also made life fractionally better for the world as a whole with one less mouth to drain resources. Er... shit. I mean, erm... by killing a random stranger, SOME HYPOTHETICAL PERSON has made life better for the world etc.

So execution isn't fair. And it's certainly not fair when America can't even figure out a painless way of doing it. Firing squads don't even aim for the head. Gas chambers are supposed to be incredibly painful. Electrocution stings like a bitch. Hanging, when it doesn't work properly, can take upwards of forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes! You could be hanged, and you could dangle their squawking and shitting yourself for an entire episode of Cracker before finally succumbing. Even lethal injection gets botched, because it's carried out by orderlies who can't always find the vein properly. Doctors have this thing called the Hippocratic Oath that prevents them from taking a life. Yeah, nice skive there, doctors. I bet, at school, you were the kids who pretended to be Muslims to get out of PE.

So, for the benefit of the world, I'd like to nominate a couple of new ways to execute people you could consider, both of which are guaranteed painless and dignified.


Step one - the subject is stood in front of a large wall of tough fibreboard, or sheet steel, or something else that isn't easily damaged by gunfire, and his right temple is held against the wall.

Step two - a loaded 12-Gauge shotgun with the end sawn off is held pointed at the hard extrusion of bone just behind the left ear. The gun barrel is held about five inches from the skin, angled towards the brain.

Step three - the subject is informed how awesome this is going to be.

Step four - the subject nods in grim agreement.

Step five - the shotgun is fired, instantly powderizing the brain and upper skull in a cloud of buckshot. No pain is felt, because by the time the brain should be registering it, it's already dripping pinkly down the wall like the contents of Peter Jackson's prop bucket.

HOW HARD WAS THAT, AMERICA? Simple, painless, and fun. Why muck around with hanging ropes that make people shit themselves for forty-five minutes when you can just blow their faces off and get back to the almond curry you're making for tea? Well, I suppose this isn't a very dignified way out, so let me detail my second idea:


I've said it before but I'll say it again: I really think Jeffrey Dahmer was a really, really nice guy, and certainly didn't deserve being raped and beaten to death in prison. It's not his fault he thought killing and eating someone was an ideal Valentine's gift. So, I say, let him use his quirk for the good of society, and help some poor misguided souls have a good send-off.

Step one - subject and Jeffrey are introduced to each other, and move into a small, intimate New York apartment with every conceivable luxury provided.

Step two - subject and Jeffrey are encouraged to go on long romantic strolls, eat in expensive restaurants, stargaze together, crash on the sofa watching Julia Roberts movies all night, in order to blossom the feelings of affection in Jeffrey's lunatic brain. Should difficulty arise, Jeffrey will be given a book of professionally-arranged erotic photographs of the subject.

Step three - unable to contain his lust, Jeffrey kills the subject painlessly by poison while they sleep, then, if he's so inclined, has his way with the body until sunrise.

Step four - Jeffrey uses the flesh to make a series of splendid meat dishes, perhaps braised in a little white wine sauce or stewed with vegetables in a casserole, so that the subject can die with the knowledge that their body is being treated with utmost respect by an appreciative collector. Nothing is wasted - the hair is sold to wigmakers, bones go into making stock, and the toenails are ripped out and hidden in packets of crisps. For a laugh.

- Yahtzee

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Last Week On FullyRamblomatic...

3/10/04: MONEYYYY

Thanks first of all to James P Wethe and the tastily-named Mistique Bacon for their donations, respectively 15 and 20 dollars. Think of all the McDonalds extra value meals that will buy! About six! Whoa! Incidentally do let me know if you'd rather donate anonymously; I know some people like to keep an air of philanthropic mystery, like a shadowy black man in a big coat buying a teddy bear for a terrified orphan child.

Also, if you're the sort of person who has been using the internet for so long that you automatically mentally screen out banner ads, scroll back up the page and you'll notice at the top a couple of new additions. The Google ad at the bottom was given to me by Nate - now, if you want to help out the site, all you need do is click that banner once or twice every time you come to the site. Really no effort at all, and you're doing your bit. It's an extremely small and stingy bit, but a bit nonetheless. Go click it now, I'll wait.


No, don't read down here yet, click the banner. You don't even have to read the site it leads to. Just click and you're helping us out.


Oh for god's sake - it's TWO FUCKING SECONDS of your TIME, you BASTARD.


Done? Good. Now, the top banner is the very first instance of me selling ad space independently. Garry, fellow Brit and dearly beloved writer of Exterminatus Now, paid twice my requested rate for that ad, so help him justify that extravagance to himself by paying his site a visit. If you like comics, and dark humour, and Sonic the Hedgehog, it'd be right up your street, you magnificently specialised individual!

Garry's comic is full of characters who don't wear pants, which isn't unusual in the sub-genre of furry art, but there are certain characters who do. Which leads me to wonder. Is this some kind of pants heirarchy, wherein actually putting on pants and covering your free-floating furry member is some kind of status symbol? Is it a reverse pants rule, so wearing pants is actually frowned upon? Or is it just some kind of pants-optional community?

I asked Garry about it, and he replied 'yes'. So that solves that.

- Yahtzee

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Last Week On FullyRamblomatic...

Hey, kids! Sick of me not updating often enough for your refined tastes? Read news posts by me, Chefelf and Heccubus pretty much every day on the Lockergnome.com Game Invasion Channel!


All material not otherwise credited by Ben 'Yahtzee' Croshaw
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