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31/5/2003: You Can Take My Order When You Get A Fucking Job

Easy targets. I love ‘em. This week, I’m stooping lower than most, in delivering a reasoned critique of The Fast Food Rockers. Someone’s got to do it.

If you’ve been spared their, ah, work, so far, consider yourself among a lucky few in this country. Essentially, what they’ve done is they’ve rehashed the appalling kids’ song in which a number of fast food brand names are recited, loudly and often. Why exactly it exists is a mystery, but my theory is that it’s a sort of marketing barometer. When the billionaires owning and operating said brands can hear the song ringing in their ears, they know that not only have they succeeded in their aim in life, and can now retire to the Costa Verde, where they will construct three swimming pools and a mansion that possesses a gravitational field from the bodies of live Spaniards bought from Social Security at the going rate of £3,367 per body (there’s a price break at 10,000!), but also that they can now hold a procession through Marketing, blowing away salarymen with unfeasibly large weapons. Whilst it would be greatly satisfying to see the mass slaughter of those who call indoctrinating the world’s children a living, they’ll only be vapourised once they’re no longer useful.

MacDonalds CEO plays with the idea of his very own Tower of Babel

Why won’t they be needed? Because the ghastly works of evil they’ve spent their lives thrusting down the throats of those too young and ignorant to know better will have become totally insidious. Parents will be weaning their children off the breast with the offer of some McDonalds’ fries. Churchmen, desperate to attract followers, will be eating a Grand Pan Vegetable Supreme® to represent the body of Christ, and drinking Fanta Red© to stand for His blood. Pre-school kids will be seated before the television, sitting impatiently through the coloured blobs danced before their eyes, waiting for the adverts to come on again.

Alright, I admit it’s going to be a while before that happens, but people like these aren’t helping things. And you know the worst thing? It’s actually the official song of the Brownies already. If you don’t know what they are, it’s akin to Girl Scouts, only aged 7-10, and they’re being fed this crap on a weekly basis. Whilst I can understand why the organisers adopted this monstrosity as an anthem of sorts, I can’t quite grasp the how. For an organisation that is supposedly founded on principals like loyalty to your Queen and Country, just how did it escape the organisers’ notice that their song of choice was an advert for Americano shit? More to the point, given a choice of the entire wealth of history, arts and culture this nation is endowed with, how did it get to the point that a song that is to the National Anthem as the forces of Capitalism and Free Market Economics are to the Queen their organisation allegedly supports was actually the best choice available?

I’m rich, at your social and cultural expense! BWAHAHAHAHA!

At this point in writing this update, I decided to stop and have a look at their website in search of some points in their favour. Alas, I was to be disappointed, as I was immediately greeted by a splash boasting of their song being the most popular on The Box (surely, more an indictment of society than praise of their own quality), brief profiles that reveal such priceless nuggets of information as their likes and dislikes (Who’s-her-face likes to eat and shop! Whatsisname doesn’t like things that smell bad!), as well as a list of the jobs they should still be doing if there was any justice in this world (waitress, papergirl and shit shoveller, respectively), and finally, a link to the power behind the throne, simply credited as the ominous Management. I get the impression that the mail sent that way ends up at a huge call-centre in North Korea, where overworked, underpaid guys use Microsoft Word’s Search-and-Replace feature to write pop songs whilst pretending to manage all of their conveyer-belt full of novelty bands that appear, gain an inexplicable number of sales and popularity, then blessedly vanish, only to be replaced by more shite of the same sort.

Perhaps this is why Señor Bush is so keen to blow the living shit out of the entire country. After all, it can only be a matter of time before he’s unseated, and the CEO of All Foods Conglomerate takes his place. Given the quality of the current incumbent, I wonder if anybody will notice the change.

Oh, you’re still here? The update’s over, go home.

Read the list. I’ve done everybody this week. Go home!

30/5/2003: Whoopsy Daisy

It seems the poster I so artfully massacred yesterday is, in fact, some fan-made mock-up, and Kane Hodder will not be playing Jason in the new film. There are two theories I was given as to why. The first states that Hodder is a gigantic lurking brute and he was undermining Robert Englund somewhat. The second says that the producers wanted to make Jason "more Phantom of the Opera-like". Do you have a clue what the fuck that's supposed to mean? Drop me a line!

Thanks to Pétur Guðmundsson, D Cohen and "Coolbonesite Deathor" for pointing out my enormous cock-up.

Today, for your reading pleasure, a short story entitled "My Fool is a Crock". This is something of a running joke at Lance and Eskimo.

29/5/2003: Something Versus Something Else

If you're anything like me (dream on, tubby), you're no doubt thrilled about the upcoming 'Freddy Vs. Jason' film. This is a particularly exciting prospect, as there hasn't been a decent 'versus' movie since Godzilla vs. The Population of Swaziland. I think I have a poster here somewhere. Can we get the poster up, Carlos?

Thank you. So, Freddy vs. Jason, then, in which an invincible fella goes up against another invincible fella to see what happens. I'm guessing the universe will explode. Seriously, though, one 'versus' film in so many years? That's pathetic. I can do better than that. And indeed will. Here're some ideas I've come up with. I even took the time to write some ad copy for them all.

Why yes, this update IS just an excuse to show off my Photoshop ability.


The demonic Saddam Hussein (Meet Mr Moustache, I Hates Me Them Kurds) has returned from the grave, and the man who destroyed him last time, George Bush (The Gulf War), is in retirement! It's up to his canny son Dubya (Gulf War II, What The Fuck Is Wrong With You, Florida) to put a stop to this diabolical force once and for all! Thrill as Dubya realises that the only solution is to sit in his office looking serious while his bigger mates go over and kick Saddam's arse and confiscate his bombs! Gasp at the twist ending as Dubya's mates realise that there aren't any bombs and the bloke whose arse they kicked isn't Saddam, but just someone who looks like Saddam. Stuck for some way to cover up this massive cock-up, Dubya immediately starts bitching at everyone who calls him a fuckwit.


It's showdown in Teletubby Land, 'cos Po's broken Dipsy's magic ball. His already fractured mind destroyed by the loss of his plaything, Dipsy goes insane. The result is a land flooded with Teletubby blood and fluff as Dipsy seeks redemption for failing to save his ball. Don't miss the thrilling climax as Po is fatally impaled on one of those stupid periscope things.

"...incredible..." - Independent

"This film is ... really ... okay?" - The Mirror

"Alton Towers is fun for all the family! [and so is this film]" - Daily Mail


The ultimate 'versus' movie, FvJvPvMvRS takes four of the most prolific horror monsters of our age and pits them against the ageing ex-drummer of the Beatles. At first, the fight seems a little one-sided, but when Ringo starts threatening to endlessly play Octopus' Garden, his adversaries decide to leave the bugger alone and get back to stabbing naked teenagers. Look out for the sequel already in production: "Freddy vs. Jason vs. Pinhead vs. Michael vs. Leatherface vs. Chucky vs. Tiny Tim".

28/5/2003: "Wit"

Some people called me racist after yesterday's update. That is just not true. I don't hate foreigners. I hate everyone.

Anyway, more Angular Mike today. Enjoy.

27/5/2003: Sing, you bastards, sing

Every year the whole of Europe gets together to endure a huge contest in which the best sugary pop group of every country in Europe is brought against each other in a no-holds-barred cage match. Not unlike the monarchy, this contest goes on every year more out of habit than anything else, and it goes by the name of the Eurovision Song Contest. A name which was kindly provided by the International Gay Names Society.

The format is simple enough. Each country's song is shown, then some representative from each country comes on to deal out points to the songs they liked the best. In the end, the country with the most points wins, if 'wins' is the right word.

The contest is hosted by whoever won it last year (the first ever song contest was hosted in the Ethereal Mist Dimension). Now, this is the ONLY incentive for winning, and running the contest is something of a strain on finances. Ireland has won it on many occasions. This isn't because everyone loves the Irish. It's because they want Ireland to be bankrupted from running the Eurovision Song Contest all the time. Why do you think the UK always hands out massive amounts of points to them? They want their empire back, fucker.

This year's winner, pictured here immediately after
eating one of those super-sour sweeties.

Speaking of the UK, this year they excelled themselves (you'll notice I'm not saying 'WE excelled ourselves'). They received no points at all. NOTHING. Out of twenty six countries each handing out a series of points, unable to vote for themselves, not a single point winged its way to old Blighty. This is unprecedented in the entire history of the contest. Even Estonia got a couple, and their admission was some bloke playing the spoons with a goat.

Now, admittedly, our entry was fucking shite, but no more so than most of the other entries. So why did we fail so spectacularly? Sit down and I'll tell you. Everyone knows that the Eurovision Song Contest is politically motivated. It's common knowledge that every country hands out points based on their opinion of the country rather than the song. It's the reason why Scandinavian countries always hand out huge amounts of points to each other. And Britain isn't that popular among Europe at the moment.

Tony Blair has put himself in an awkward situation. He's trying to suck up to both America and Europe, even though they hate each other. Which is not to say they don't have common ground; they both hate Britain. Europe hates Britain for never joining in their fun, and America hates Britain for being better at fighting than them. It's a bit of an uphill struggle Tony's given himself, so fair play to him.

Getting back to the contest, this year it was hosted in Latvia. Don't be ashamed if you have no idea where that is, because I don't think anyone does, least of all the people who live there. The two hosts were a pair of adorable bubbly young people usually found on Saturday morning television or in bands called Steps. Now, not wishing any disrespect to our Latvian cousins, I'm pretty certain the contest would have been better hosted by a performing dog. Why? Because no-one ever feels the urge to shoot performing dogs. I'm sorry, Eurovision hosts, I know I shouldn't tease. I wish I could speak a second language. But if I could, I wouldn't attempt to do a comedy routine with it. I swear it was like watching those plays primary school children put on, in which the child given the role of narrator inevitably starts crying as soon as he begins.*

I really want to be part of Eurovision. Not to host, or to play songs, or to hand out points, good lord no. I want to be in Terry Wogan's position. Every year, for the benefit of us Brits, the BBC wheel out Terry Wogan so he can watch the contest and give an occasional commentary. And despite his jolly demeanour, he's surprisingly acidic. He does this every year, so he's no doubt completely fed up with the whole miserable charade, which is an impression I certainly get from his comments. Whenever the grinning hosts fluff up another badly-rehearsed comedy routine, we can always rely on Terry to lighten our hearts with a well-timed "What the hell is wrong with you people?"

He's like the bridge between the sanity of everyday life and the madness of the song contest. BBC, listen to me now: Terry Wogan will eventually die, and his part in the contest is one I was fucking BORN to play.

* True story: One time at my primary school some class was doing one of these little plays, and the narrator got as far as "Hello, and welcome to-" before he trailed off, paused for a second, then burst into floods of noisy tears. I'm not sure whether he noticed his parents weren't there, or if he suddenly realised the intense pressure upon his ickle shoulders, but I do know this: if he isn't still being teased for that performance, there is absolutely no justice in this world.

26/5/2003: Word At One

I wish to draw your attention to a grave injustice. An injustice concerning the words of the English language, and their meanings. I think we, as a people, should stop using really cool words to describe things you can't talk about in everyday conversation.


"Fellatio" is one of the best words to say in the world. It just flows off the tongue. Throughout saying the word you know, you just KNOW that every single syllable is in exactly the right place. If I had to attribute it to something physical, it's like a gentle Caribbean wave lapping gently upon a sandy beach.

And what does it mean? "To stimulate the penis with the mouth". How can the boffins who invented the English language taint such a marvellous word with such a tawdry meaning?

And while we're on the subject 'Penis' doesn't deserve to mean what it does, either. The penis is one of the ugliest things in the entire world, but 'penis' is a very pretty word. It should mean something like "delightful", as in "Yes, I had a very penis evening at Her Majesty's Theatre. The actor portraying Bottom was particularly penis."

Same with 'vagina'. If it weren't for the actual meaning of the word, I would happily name one of my children 'Vagina'. Here's my daughter Vagina, my son Penis, and their little friend Chlamydia. They've just returned from lessons at St. Cunnilingus Junior School.

Okay, cunnilingus isn't such a good word, as for some reason I think it should be used to describe a part of the anatomy of H. R. Giger's Alien.

I was discussing this with a coworker of mine, and she also put forward the word 'felching' for re-examination. I confess I had no idea what this word meant, but I agreed the word did sound terribly nice. To me, it sounded like it should mean "to adorably steal small, insignificant things, like what little rosy-cheeked rascally boys do in Norman Rockwell paintings".

Then she told me what it did mean.

I won't give you the full details as explained, as this site does still have some standards. Let's just say that it's something homosexual men do immediately prior to having a nasty taste in their mouths.

There are still other great words that aren't used enough. Mephistopheles, for instance. Mephistopheles (Meff-is-toff-ah-leez) is a brilliant word! It deserves to be so much more than some long-dead Greek dude or whatever. We should be using it in everyday conversation. Allow me to throw out a few possibilities.

VERB: "Did you mephistopheles that hit and run incident? Did you mephistopheles the registration number?"
NOUN: "Everyone stand back! Give these poor sods some mephistopheles!"
ADJECTIVE: "That was a horribly mephistopheles accident. I am quite horrified."
ADVERB: "The perpetrator did run away mephistophelesly!"
INTERJECTION: "Mephis H. Topheles! Look at all the blood coming out of that guy!"

In order to remedy this unforgivable situation, I propose that we change some nice things with dreadful words to one of the above nice words. For instance, I hate the word 'fudge', but I like the object itself. From now on, if this idea takes off, we'll have to change the name to 'vagina'.

"Mm-mm, I love the taste of vagina!"

"Yes! I'm just not happy unless there's a hefty chunk of vagina in my mouth!"

"I particularly enjoy Cornish vagina."

"Clotted cream vagina?"

"Yes, clotted cream vagina is particularly penis."

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All material not otherwise credited by Ben 'Yahtzee' Croshaw
Copyright 2002 All Rights Reserved and other legal bollock language