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[Here's the weekend update from Chris. Sorry it's a bit late, I wasn't sure if he'd be sending me one or not. Anyway, it's a flowchart. I don't put such things on the front page 'cos they're too unwieldy, so I'll just link to it. Bam!
Something a little different for you this week. I reviewed 'The Spy Who Loved Me', because I saw it and it offended me.
Oh yeah, and all you Odysseus Kent fans can now enjoy your favouritest game in a whole new light! Yes, thanks to a little co-operation between myself and one Tomas Krajca, you can now play Odysseus Kent entirely in Czech! You'll find details on this page somewhere. I can't tell, I can't read a word of it.
Well, I guess I'm expected to make some cynical acerbic remarks about Arnold Schwarzeneggar being elected Governor of California. I suppose stranger things have happened, like, for instance, a former professional wrestler being elected Governor of Minnesota, or a man who is legally braindead being elected President.
I dunno, I can't really bring myself to care much about this, what with it taking place in some place that is absolutely nothing to do with me. Maybe I'm just more blase 'cos I'm moving down under soon, to live somewhere nice and distant from worldwide affairs. I can't give an appraisal of Schwarzeneggar 'cos I don't know the man personally. From what I know, he seems like a simple-minded musclehead with bad dentistry, but I don't know very much. I haven't heard what his policies are, but I imagine they were the usual crowd-pleasing stars-in-eyes promises of a better world for all while a chorus of children hum the National Anthem.
Let's not have any illusions here, people. No-one voted for Ahh-Nold because of his policies. They voted for him because he's a celebrity. It's name recognition that pulls votes these days. That's how Ronald Reagan got into office, and it could well have been how George W. Bush got in if we assume the votes weren't rigged (still wondering about that, tho'). If he'd wanted to he could've rode into office on the 'free illegal drugs and extermination of Jews' ticket, no-one would care. Hey, it's Arnold! We know him! Let's vote for him! Politics may be a step in the right direction, since the man certainly can't act.
I don't know how good a leader he would be, but then it doesn't really matter; he doesn't NEED to be a good leader. He's got advisors. All he has to worry about is the smilin' and the wavin' and the baby kissin', and leave the actual important decisions to people with sense. And if these individuals are shrewd enough to recognise the sure winner and get behind them, then they're probably shrewd enough to keep the economy ticking over.
What kind of pisses me off about this is the shameful behaviour of the opposition in the run up to the election, airing the big galoot's dirty laundry for all the world to see. Wheeling out some girls he fondled in his youth was low enough, but then they took some throwaway comment from him about Hitler and made him out as a Nazi. They could probably see that it would be impossible to win against such a celebrity, but they could certainly be a little more grown up about it. If you're going to stoop to such playground smearing, you might as well have said "Don't vote for him, because he smells of poo."
But as I said, California is a world away, and populated exclusively by cretins and fashion victims anyway, so I don't really care. Arnold and his mates can unleash rabid fire-breathing vampire shrews upon the streets of LA for all I care, it's not going to affect me, I have no connection with the place. Well, I did go on holiday there once years ago, but that doesn't matter unless the vampire shrews can time travel as well.
I'm more interested in a debate that's slightly closer to home, that being who the next Dr. Who is going to be. Once again, let's have no illusions. When a programme is axed and is shamefacedly brought back ages later, it's never as good. This happened to Absolutely Fabulous. A new Dr. Who series will be compared to the old ones, and since they have nostalgia on their side, the old ones will always win. The BBC have lost the touch they had in the olden days; they've done nothing but trot out formulaic bullshit for years. This is why they need to keep recreating old gems like Dr. Who, because they could never come up with anything as fucked up these days.
Oh yeah, and God doesn't exist.
Yes, I think I have shattered enough illusions for today. See you tomorrow!
Christians are a funny lot, aren't they? It doesn't seem to matter what their God does, they'll just keep on loving him regardless. You could produce a detailed flowchart explaining how a God could never exist, go on a lecture tour explaining it and produce a signed affidavit from the Pope to the effect that there's no God, but not one of those wacky Christians would go "Oh, well, I guess you're probably right, then. Sweet! Now I can do whatever I like on Sunday mornings!"
It doesn't matter how many times they get kicked in the teeth, they'll keep bounding joyfully along after their big ol' God, the pupils in their eyes replaced with little hearts. In many ways, they're a lot like Pepe LePew.
Fair play to them, of course. Most of them have been brought up from birth to accept the wacky teachings of the Bible as undisputable fact. Telling them it's all a big joke would throw them a bit, so rather than become deeply embittered and succumbing to madness, they'd generally rather just go to extreme lengths to convince themselves that they're still right. It's quite interesting how far they'll go, sometimes.
Using a sophisticated array of simulation programs, I have put together a small timeline of what would happen if God manifested himself while in a bad mood, and how the fundamentalist crapheads would react.
Day 1: God appears in all his splendour to the sound of a choir of angels, radiating the light of heaven, smack bang in the middle of St. Peter's Square during an address from the Pope to a massive crowd of people. He proceeds to drunkenly slur that they're all a bunch of tossheads, bottle the Pope in the face and defecate hugely on the upward-staring masses before disappearing in a shower of piss.
Day 2: Mostly shocked silence.
Day 3: The Pope goes on record smugly stating that he was right all along, there IS a God. Furthermore, he thanks the Almighty for bringing down His blessing upon St. Peter's Square, effortlessly dodging questions concerning use of the word 'tosshead' and stating that even the shit of God is pure and holy.
Day 4: The huge pile of shit in St. Peter's Square is enjoying massive pilgrim attendance. Wily cardinals start bagging it and selling it for fifty lira a pop.
Day 5: An exasperated God authors a lengthy article for the Reader's Digest, with the headline "Look, you think I wrote that shitty bible thing? I gave you free will for a reason, you mindless fuckers."
Day 6: Editors of Reader's Digest lynched by fundamentalists. God causes a series of massive supernovas until the words "FUCK YOU" are clearly visible in the night sky all over the world. Theologists quickly find a verse in the bible which refers obliquely to today being opposite day or something.
Day 7: Muttering the words "crafty buggers" under his breath, God uses his omnipotent powers to change every word in every copy of the Bible everywhere to the word 'CUNT'.
Day 8: Someone points out that 'CUNT' sounds a little bit like the Hebrew word for 'love'. Bible translated accordingly, now reads like the opening verses to the Beatles' 'All You Need Is Love'.
Day 9: Jesus appears on national television warning that God is currently a powder keg of frustration and anger, and if anyone worships him for even a second more then he's genuinely afraid of what might happen. "Seriously," he adds. "He looks like shit. I'm sorry if there was a misunderstanding, but he really wants you to pack in the worship now. I'm not kidding, you guys."
Day 10: Jesus' message taken as a test of faith by Christians, recalling that scene in Fight Club where Tyler and Jack constantly try to discourage the people standing on their doorstep for three days. Jesus shrugs despondently, and takes his accumulated holiday time.
Day 11: Astronomers spot a massive bastard asteroid heading straight for the Bible Belt. Christians start praying their little hearts out. Asteroid is suddenly twice as big.
Day 12: In the seconds before the asteroid hits, the human race notice the words "YOU'RE ALL GOING TO HELL, BY THE WAY" carved into the rock.
Day 13: Mankind obliterated but for one bloke who spends the rest of his life searching under rocks for food in the howling wasteland that was once human civilisation.
Day 47: Bloke finds nest of cockroaches, and weeps with gratitude. "God has smiled upon me!" he cries.
Day 48: Earth explodes.
I am Benjamin Richard Croshaw. I am 6 foot 4 inches in height. I weigh approximately 12 stone. I wear my shirts in large or extra large and my shoes in size 12 and a half. I have long brown hair which I wear in a pony tail.
I am a son to Mr and Mrs Croshaw, a middle-aged middle-class couple who live in the Midlands and are of middling financial stature.
I am a brother to David William Croshaw, occasionally a professional drummer with whom I have nothing in common, and whom I dislike for his obnoxiously overbearing presence.
I am Yahtzee, an internet presence that came into existence four or five years ago. I rant endlessly on any subject that comes to my mind with the intention to entertain, which I do with no apparent need for either praise or payment. I also design games, usually in secret to prevent undue fuss, and post on one or two messageboards.
I am a writer. I harbour my very own personal universe within my imagination, where great events occur every minute of every day. I have a horde of characters acting independently and simultaneously throughout this universe, each embarking on their own tales and personal conflicts. Some of these I write about, although I find with some frustation that my words cannot do justice to the scenes I picture.
I am an atheist, ostracised and jeered by the church because I have had the gall to look around at a fundamentally chaotic universe and decide for myself that there can be no guiding intelligence behind it.
I am a consumer, part of the system of capitalism. To the corporations that control our lives, I am nothing but a huge mouth wearing designer jeans, just one of billions, to be cajoled or threatened with advertising into giving my money to people who already have too much. Although I vocally consider this a despicable state of affairs, I buy their loveless food and wear their manufactured garments. I am simultaneously antagonist and component.
I am an Englishman, born and bred in the British Isles. I am representative of a north-west European island nation which once ruled a quarter of the globe, but has now acquired a sense of self-loathing to such a degree that it does not feel it deserves an empire anymore.
I am caucasian, a member of the group of people who once believed firmly that we were God's chosen people and are now consequently the only people who aren't allowed to be racist.
I am male, a representative of the gender that kept the other one downtrodden for centuries, and are now paying for this with regular smugly-toned newspaper articles explaining how men are obsolete and responsible for all human suffering. If the media is to be believed, I am immature, unhygienic, addicted to canned beer and obsessed with football.
I am a human being, a member of the species that beat everyone else in the race for higher intelligence and opposable thumbs, and which as such has acquired some misguided sense of duty towards our planet, but which has also been gradually self-destructing ever since it evolved free will.
I am life, a spark of consciousness sealed inside a pile of elements blended into organic material and strung together into a bafflingly complicated machine sculpted into perfection by evolution. By simply existing I am proof of both the possibility of such a bizarre creation in an otherwise directionless universe and its compromising unlikelihood.
I am bored of this now.
So, it seems certain American parties are expressing horror at the treatment poor old David Blaine is getting from us Brits. Me, I was against it from the start. If David Blaine had any sense at all he wouldn't have done it in London. If he'd come to Yorkshire and suspended himself from a humpbacked bridge somewhere in the Dales, everyone would have been much nicer and may even have sent him cream scones.
In case you've been spending the last few weeks in your very own perspex box, allow me to bring you up to speed. Mr. Blaine, crap magician turned professional show-off, has decided to thrill the world by locking himself in a transparent box above the Thames for forty days and forty nights. Kind of like Houdini, only the stupid cunt forgot to fill the box with water. Hey, Davey! We all enjoy masturbation, but we don't all go to such lengths to do it!
Maybe we British with our British sensibilities don't have the same thought processes as the Americans which allow them to enjoy such a spectacle. I'm not trying to justify those dickless wonders who think hurling eggs and abuse when he's trying to sleep is the height of comedy, but really, what were we SUPPOSED to do? Stand and cheer for forty days until we all go hoarse? Send him a cake with a file in it? What? Maybe we're not supporting him very well because we can see exactly what this is; the latest in a long series of huge galactic ego wanks on the part of the hairy prick.
Well, it is, isn't it! It can't be anything but an ego wank, having eliminated the other possibilities.
- It's not some attempt to shed light on the plight of the world's starving, and I'll tell you why. DB was stuffing his face with tasty pies right up to the beginning of this stunt, and will no doubt resume stuffing his face with tasty pies as soon as he gets down. If he was really concerned about the plight of the starving, he could have just sent them all his tasty pies. And maybe some of that fucking money he has so much of, you know.
- It's not a scientific examination to see how far a human body can go without food, because various people have inadvertently been running this experiment since time immemorial. Remember Captain Scott! There's a reason, of course, why people don't deliberately put themselves in these situations, and that reason is because they aren't tossheads.
So, by process of elimination, this stunt is nothing but an ego wank. David Blaine is the adult, modern-day equivalent of a young child acting like a spoiled little shit just so people will pay attention to him. If he'd put himself in an opaque box in a garage somewhere he wouldn't have been met with the same derision. But no, he had to go for something transparent smack in the middle of Europe's biggest metropolis. Might as well have painted a big sign reading "HEY! LOOK AT MEEE!" in urgent red lettering. If he really thought we would sit and gawk with wonder and admiration for six weeks then he obviously doesn't respect us, so why should we respect him?
I guarantee you David Blaine will go back to America and tell everyone that all the British are a bunch of thugs and snobby pooheads, and that's really not fair. If DB himself had been British, we'd probably have just ignored him, averting our gaze and hissing at children that it isn't polite to stare at nutters. It's just 'cos he's a Yank that we hate him. In being a yank, he represents all yanks, and in wanking his ego, he represents the colossal worldwide ego wanking the Americans partake in, showering the world in their self-congratulatory semen and expecting the people of the world to lick it up. Our reaction is simply a representation of our country's current feeling of contempt for American spunk rain. That's my theory, anyway.
Of course America has a huge ego. When a humiliated David Blaine goes back to his sycophantic mates so they can tell him that he really is a very special person, he'll accuse us all of being anti-American. That's indicative of the problem, really. Americans are the only people in the world who have a special word for people who don't like them.
And that, I think, just sums it all up.
material not otherwise credited by Ben 'Yahtzee' Croshaw