Everyone hates corporate buzzwords and boardroom slang. Everyone. Even newborn infants, yet to glimpse the world for the first time or hear anything other than the beating of their mother’s heart are filled with a primal, instinctive dread at the very thought of modern business phrasiology. It is an unspeakable horror, more twisted and vile than anything described in the pages of H.P. Lovecraft’s ‘Cthulhu’ mythos.
By far the worst however, by several orders of ghastly magnitude, is the term “singing from the same hymn sheet“. Derived from the slightly less foul but equally forbidden “reading from the same page”, this sickening utterance not only fills the meeting rooms of the English speaking world like a deafening, crackling static, but by introducing hymn sheets to the fray drags Christianity into the fucking equation. Bloody Christianity.
While contemplating this term and the various methods I would employ to dismember any soul foolish enough to use it in my presence, it occurred to me that it would offend me far less if there were a variety of multi-faith equivalents that could be used by, for example, our Islamic chums or those nice Buddhists.
Some examples:
Bellowing from the same minaret
Praying in the direction of the same Mecca
Wearing the same turban
Carefully moving the same earthworm out of our path so we don’t stand on it
Sacrificing at the same altar
Fasting for the same Ramadan
Hallucinating with the same shaman
Taking a pilgrimage to the same Hajj, circling the same Ka’bah seven times, kissing the same Black Stone, running back and forth between the same hills of Al-Safa and Al-Marwah, drinking from the same Zamzam Well, standing in vigil at the same Mount Ararat and throwing stones in the same Devil-stoning ritual.
Take note, international people of business. Take note, or I will punch your stupid heads off.
What is HORTO GRAVANDA? HORTO GRAVANDA is the language of pleasant greetings. While other languages are cluttered by words for all manner of different things, HORTO GRAVANDA is perfect for greeting people in a pleasant fashion as its only word is ‘HORTO GRAVANDA‘, roughly translating as ‘hello‘. While ‘HORTO GRAVANDA‘ would be regarded as two words in any other language, it is made into one by the secret punctuation unique to the language of ‘HORTO GRAVANDA‘. When you say ‘HORTO GRAVANDA‘ to someone, you’re not just saying ‘hello’ (or ‘HORTO GRAVANDA‘) to them, but you’re saying ‘hello’ (‘HORTO GRAVANDA‘) to their mother. This is the beauty of ‘HORTO GRAVANDA‘.
So go on, say ‘HORTO GRAVANDA‘ today!
Cobra Beer have a lot to answer for. Whichever vile marketing goons they hired for their current advertising campaign have fashioned a thing of such utter repugnance that spermatozoa actively sterilise themselves in order that future generations aren’t born to witness it.
In each of these vomit-inducing animated vignettes currently airing predominantly on Dave (the BBC’s unofficially sanctioned repeats channel) three blokes exchange what is supposed to be the channel’s trademark witty banter. Unfortunately the level of wit possessed by Cobra’s marketing chimps is significantly less than Wildean, and after scrawling some inane drivel on a napkin in their own shit they bounded off for another tea party prior to prolonged session of horrifying medical experiments.
Worse still, the pedestrian musings of these woeful simian shitklaxons is almost invariably sandwiched between funny, intelligent programmes like QI or Have I Got News For You. The contrast between the whimsical observations, disarming charm and knee-quiveringly smooth voice of Stephen Fry and the grating, screeching idiocy of these adverts is so jarring that I’d be amazed if it hasn’t contributed to at least one death. I expect the long term effects of exposure to this must be comparable in terms of permanent physical injury to gargling cocktail sticks or regularly bathing in Sabatier knives, and so the deaths are sure to come sooner or later.
Do you hear me, Cobra Beer executive types? Deaths! You have the blood of innocents on your hands! You have lured a nation into a bottomless pit of mental deterioration! You pigs! You swine! You diabolical fuckers!
Poor Christian Bale. It’s tough being an actor, you know. It’s tough being rich and pampered and adored and not having to cry yourself to sleep every night or make the cuts in your arms to stop the pain, but then some utter cunt comes along and walks behind you.
Want to hear what Christian Bale has to say when someone on the set of Terminator Salvation walks behind him? Click here for the funny (mp3, 3.5MB, NSFW)
(Thanks to Scones for the link)
Surely I can’t be the only one who, when bombarded by a seeming endless string of adverts for gocompare.com, finds themselves screaming the words “go fuck yourself dot com” back at the television through gritted teeth, fists clenched and eyes bulging in a fit of murderous rage?
(Those speculatively checking the existence of gofuckyourself.com may wish to avoid doing so at work, as it appears to be an pornography)
I have lots of ideas. Lots of them. Sometimes these ideas are good ideas, but more often than not they’re terrible ideas. Most of these ideas are of the variety that most people would keep to themselves for fear of being branded a sickening fiend and consequently excommunicated from society as a whole.
I write down all of these ideas.
Recently my list of ideas has got a little overlong, and realising that I’m never going to do anything with any of them I thought I’d do a little spring cleaning, get them out in the open, and ultimately out of my notebook.
Here goes.
Phlegmange
It’s a pudding made of phlegm. There’s not really any more to it than that. I’m not sure exactly how the phlegm would be set into the shape of a pudding, nor where such large quantities of phlegm could be sourced, but I like the sound of it enough to write it down for posterity. I briefly contemplated rendering a phlegmange in Photoshop before realising that such a thing was not only beyond my capabilities as a graphic manipulator but almost certainly more than I could stomach on any given day. Continue reading ‘Thoughtpuke’
Two Chinese men have been given the death penalty for their role in the contamination of milk which led to the deaths of six babies and which made 300,000 others ill.
I do hope they’re going to be milked to death.
By Sean Penn.
You don’t rent the or buy the Zohan either. You don’t ever watch the Zohan under any circumstances. You do not allow others to watch the Zohan. You do not speak of the Zohan.
Now I like racism as much as the next man*, but someone needs to tell Adam Sandler that there’s only so much comedy material to be found in parodying stereotypes of Jews and Arabs, and certainly not enough to fill one hour and fifty six minutes.
ONE HOUR AND FIFTY SIX MINUTES OF MY FUCKING LIFE THAT I’LL NEVER GET BACK.
Wouldn’t it be funny if I was Arab, and declared a fatwa on Adam Sandler? Because he’s probably, like, a Jew and stuff? And Arabs are just mental and declare fatwas all the time! Hah! That’s comedy fucking gold, right there.
* A funny joke. Take note, Sandler.
While biting into my brie, basil and tomato poncewich today I noticed that luncheon whores Pret A Manger are now giving away their secret magic recipes on the back of their conscientiously recycled paper bags. The economy has spazzed out so badly that now even the most shamelessly overpriced high street eateries are advising us to make our own fucking lunch.
What next? Will Woolworths plaster the windows of their rapidly emptying retail outlets with placards recommending that each member of the general public open their own shitty knock-down tat store in their garage? Could Clarks simply give up selling shoes overnight and start handing out leaflets detailing how to entice magical shoemaking elves into our homes? Will B&Q shut up shop and recommend that next time you need a hammer you just pop round to Peter Sutcliffe’s house?
These truly are the end days.
Wouldn’t it be great if there was a scheme similar to that which sent unused spectacles to the third world, but instead donated iPods full of Kaiser Chiefs songs? They might have nothing left to eat, but they’d never miss a beat (never miss a beat).
