Oooooo controversial. It’s not religion I dislike per se, it’s just overly-pushy religious people. Please, feel free to have religious beliefs but treat them like a penis. I don’t want to see/hear about yours, and for the love of Darwin if you try and push yours down my throat I’ll stab you with a prison shank. I just find the whole thing a joke. Perhaps there was a Jesus. Perhaps he did have a bunch of disciples. But perhaps they spent every night smoking Nazareth’s finest ganja and one night decided to write a book of crazy stories which somehow got out of hand, and now look at us. A society where people will believe that there’s an omnipotent old man in the sky with no questions asked, but if you tell them the paint is wet, they’ll have to touch it just to make sure.
Last year I didn’t know what PPI was. I was comfortable not knowing what it was. I was living a happy life, blissfully unaware that up and down the country the good people of this nation were being mis-sold payment protection insurance. That was fine. Then, some bellends realised they could make a quick buck from reclaiming this from banks on behalf of people on a no-win no-fee basis (we’ll get to you later, InjuryLawyers4u). Now it seems that I can’t go a single day without receiving a text, seeing an advert on TV or having a mysterious old man on a giant earthworm hand me a scroll (meth’s a hell of a drug) asking whether I’ve been mis-sold PPI.
I’m not going to say that I’m not lazy, because I am. I’m really fucking lazy. One time I downloaded a movie I already own on DVD because I couldn’t be arsed to get up and find it. That’s something that grinds my gears though, when people don’t keep their optical media in the correct case. The worst part is, it usually ends up in a shit treasure hunt attempting to find ‘Harold and Kumar get the Munchies’ at 3AM and then seeing that in that case is Finding Nemo, in Nemo’s case is Fight Club, in Fight Club is the copy of Gone with the Wind that your nan got free with The Sun, and lying on the floor face-down is the film you actually wanted to watch.
I’d say that I hate to be pedantic, but that’s simply not true. I fucking love it. One thing that riles me is the mug that all middle-aged blokes seem to have received at some point in their lives: the “World’s best dad” mug. In all fairness, at no fault of said bloke, it’s usually bought for him as a gift by one of his offspring as an unimaginative birthday gift which they’ve convinced themselves he’ll appreciate. The mug should be more appropriately branded, “You are the best dad I have”. The chances are, he’s not the best dad in the world. He might be a great dad, but with 2 billion other dads in the world, we can’t expect them all to be the best, and that’s fine. It’s only when you start reinforcing your male role-model beliefs with pottery that it begins to get on my nerves. This begs the question, why do they make so many of the bloody things? In an integer-based ranking system, there can be only 1 best dad on the planet. Don’t tell me ‘spares’, nobody is that accident-prone. If I had my way, there would only be 1 of these mugs, and there would be an annual event where dads could prove themselves by fighting various wild animals defending their children, etc. Perhaps a 100m bedtime story dash would be appropriate.
Oh and Dad, if you’re reading this, I love you mate.
I don’t really like kids. And what I dislike more than kids, is crying kids. When they’re silent, I can pretend they’re not there. It’s like having a dog covered in snot with a car alarm attached to its head. What’s worse is when I can’t get away from them, like at the cinema or on a plane. I paid £8.45 (ridiculous, I know) for the privilege of seeing The Avengers before it went to DVD and I’m finding it difficult to follow the plot when your 140 decibel 6 year-old (who got into a 12A, how?!) won’t shut the fuck up because he’s out of popcorn. Either buy him some more or take him home. I have no moral objection to punching your child, even if you do.
MAKE UP YOUR MIND BEFORE YOU ENTER THE QUEUE.
I only wanted a fucking Double Cheeseburger and now I have to watch your waste-of-space ass decide what it’d like off the poundsaver menu with too much umming and arring for my liking. If you’re publicly dicking around, do so with as little self-deprecating humour as possible. The 5 minutes you spent in the line gave you that valuable time to pick what it is that you’d like to clog your arteries with today but instead you chose to spend it talking to ‘Becky’ on the phone about ‘how big Scott’s junk was’ and how you were ‘like, soooo wasted on Saturday’. Just get yourself an Egg McMuffin and get out of my sight.
Woah. What are you doing? There’s a general rule of thumb for getting on and off the bus: you let people get off before you try and board. It’s unwritten, but everybody knows it. Next time you try and get on and ask for a “Return to Waygoose Drive” and then look at me in disgust when I attempt to squeeze past your not-so-slender size 26 frame (I’m looking at you, obese lady who takes up 2 seats and half the gangway) I will shout in your face, “YOU’RE BREAKING THE PROTOCOL!” before writing on your forehead with permanent marker “I’m unaware of how to board a bus, don’t let me have sharp objects”.
No matter how you choose to phrase it (YOLO, #yolo, You Only Live Once), it’s still the most fucking irritating thing you could possibly utter. It’s not just the fact that it’s a shit acronym, but its use to justify any ridiculous action that you’re about to undertake is 100% successful in making you a full-time bellend.
“Tell me again why you drank a fifth of vodka, stormed into your local Post Office, beheaded the 87 year-old woman behind the counter before violently masturbating over the greetings cards?”
“YOLO, your honour.”
“Well I can relate to that. I find the defendant not guilty by reason of only living once.”
Can’t say I find that believable.
“You wanna go and grab some food? I haven’t eaten in literally a million years.” This makes me want to club you ’round the face with a boiled kettle. If you ask me this, we will not be going to ‘grab some food’, and more than likely the police will be investigating your disappearance. Because, “I haven’t eaten in a million years” wasn’t outrageous enough to believe, you have to reinforce your point with the fact that the bullshit that just escaped your lips should be interpreted literally and without question.
Now I’m not generalising all members of law enforcement, this is specifically aimed at those that chose the career path because they were bullied at school, have one of those micropenises that you see on Embarrassing Bodies or were touched by their uncle Ian (who later turned out to not be their uncle at all). The sort that will call in an armed response unit over being called ‘dickhead’ by a cyclist he pulled over and wrote out a ticket for, for not having his helmet tightened sufficiently. The type whose mother still refers to him as ‘Snookums’ and who wiped his arse until he was 12.