Friday, March 16, 2007
39
This is in danger of becoming the ‘bitching blog’, but while we’re on a roll, here’s another thing that’s annoying me RIGHT. FUCKING. NOW: People who eat with their mouths open. There are a couple of these fuckers sitting near to me in the office, and both make that disgusting smacking sound as they obliviously munch their lunch. Interestingly, both have girlfriends, which leads me to wonder if these charming men smack and slurp their way through candlelit romantic dinners. Or maybe their girlfriends are slobbering slobs too.
1 - Heck, you should blog on LJ, that’s where all the minxish cartoonists are blogging. (Comment this)
Written by: ms_slonim at 2006/03/17 - 18:51:40
Written by: Anonymous at 2006/04/05 - 12:23:42
38
What the fuck is up with blokes who go into a gents’ toilet for a piss, use a cubicle, but then wee with the goddamn door open? What are they thinking? “I have a tiny penis and am therefore a bit too shy to use the urinals, but if I go in this cubicle and leave the door wide open, well hell, I’m still one of the guys.”
Some background might be useful here. For those unfamiliar (i.e. women, or at least some women, or at least the kind of women I don’t personally know), there are basically two options when using a gents’ toilet. You can either use the urinals, or you can opt for a cubicle. If you just need a piss, the urinals are generally where you go. One reason not to use the urinals might be what is commonly known as ’stage fright’. This is a phenomenon whereby other men are using the urinals and you feel you might not be able to ‘perform’ (’piss’) with them standing there. Nothing to be ashamed of, you just head off to a cubicle (closing the door behind you so that some other poor sod doesn’t stumble in and inadvertently glimpse your ghosty white ass, like just now) and do your business.
Where things get a little tricky is when stage fright strikes after you’ve made the decision to use the urinals. Standing there with your cock in your hands with nothing issuing forth whilst others beside you happily gush like racehorses is one of the more excruciating experiences a man can go through. There are several options in this situation, none of them particularly appealing. You can grin and bear it and hang on till your co-pissers leave, all the while hoping the side of the urinal is shielding your piss-less-ness; if they came into the toilet after you, you can make like you’ve actually just finished pissing and leave the loo, nipping back at the first opportunity; or you can give up, zip up and shuffle off shame-faced to a cubicle.
And then close. The fucking. Door.
Written by: Alan Sugar at 2006/03/13 - 16:46:34
2 - You’re fired. (Comment this)
Written by: Nick J at 2006/03/13 - 16:49:29
37
Walk down one of the bigger high streets in Britain and it’s likely that at some point you’ll encounter a bloke standing in the rain holding up a placard bearing the legend ‘GOLF SALE’. It always seems to be ‘GOLF SALE’ too, never ‘FOOTBALL SALE’ or ‘BADMINTON SALE’ or, I dunno, ‘JAM SALE’. I’ve often wondered about this phenomenon. What is it about golf that marks it out for special placard treatment? Are all golfing outlets so impoverished they can’t afford high street rent, and so must employ a bloke to direct potential customers to some dank, musty establishment off in an alley somewhere? Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe unsuspecting golfers are lured off to their doom, enticed into an innocent-looking if slightly-off-the-beaten-track store by the promise of cheap clubs only to be set upon by crazed old men in bad check trousers and stupid white shoes and sodomised with a five iron.
Enquiring minds need to know.
36
I might make this a regular thing when I go random blogging. Leave messages on any likeminded blogs or any that are halfway decent or maybe just perversely amusing. The chances of finding many that fall into the first two categories are slim, I feel (the third category should prove less of a problem). There are millions of blogs out there, and who knows how many on this particular system. But let’s consider this an outreach programme - hands across the internet, that sort of thing.
‘Course, if I do leave messages, and the recipients do make it back here, it’s unlikely they’ll stick around. Existential Ennui is a barren wasteland to be sure, bereft of intelligent discourse or meaningful discussion. Just the way I like it.
35
Right, that’s it. No more ‘random blogging’ for a while. I can’t stand any more fucking awful poetry or people droning on about their dreary boyfriends/girlfriends/cats. I found one decent blog on that last excursion and I don’t think it was happenstance that that person lives in New York (as opposed to Middleoffuckingnowherewithnothingtodobutwriteafuckingblogville). So I left her a comment. Least I could do.
34
A return visit to Suzy Bauer’s Step by Step Threesome Erotic Blog has produced some distressing news. Suzy can’t get pinged. Certain blogging sites won’t ping her blog when she updates, despite the fact that if you key her name into a search engine you get countless hits (try it - I did!). Suzy is outraged at this ’sensorship’ (sic), and frankly so am I! So Existential Ennui would like to state for the record that should Suzy ever choose to visit this blog, she is guaranteed a ping!
Yes, it’s a cheap joke. Whaddya want, searing insight? Incidentally, Suzy has written a book about threesomes. Lavishly illustrated, one hopes.
33
What possesses a person to walk down the street on their own playing an accordian? Can’t they get a fucking ipod like the rest of us?
32
Going ‘random blogging’ occasionally feels a bit weird and intrusive. Sometimes it’s all so intimate and personal you can’t click the ‘Random Blog’ link again fast enough. It’s like wandering through people’s back gardens, stopping to look at their gnomes, maybe using their pool. No, hang on, that’s Burt Lancaster in The Swimmer.
Anyway. Encountered in blogland on this latest jaunt were numerous God-botherers, various foreigners, assorted poets, a self-harmer, an alcoholic attending bartender school, a blogging baby, and the prize find of the day, Suzy Bauer’s Step by Step Threesome Erotic Blog. Oh yes.
31
So then. The £53 million Tonbridge security depot robbery. Just heard on the news the police have found another stash of cash. They won’t say how much, but estimates are in the £11 million range. That’s on top of £8.3 million they’ve already found.
Now, when the news first broke about the robbery, the police made much of the fact that these were master criminals; that the heist was planned with incredible precision; that every last detail had been taken into account. And they were correct. Up to a point. That point being the end of the actual robbery. The stuff that came after the robbery, the little things like hiding the cash and escaping, well, that’s been a bit of a fiasco.
In the days immediately following the heist the police managed to find most of the vehicles involved, make a bunch of arrests and recover a substantial wedge of the money. Master criminals? We’re not exactly talking Heat here are we? £19.3 million. That’s how much these stupid bastards have managed to lose so far. Talk about careless. How the bloody hell do you lose that amount of money? Imagine the conversation:
“‘Ere, Reg.”
“Wossup, Phil?”
“You know when we woz making our escape from the depot?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I fink I might ‘ave left a bit of money in the van.”
“Right. ‘Ow much d’you fink you left, Phil?”
“£19.3 million, Reg.”
Bang.
