Seriously, if I catch anyone doing this on Saint Patrick’s day, I will throw eggs.
On the back it reads: “....and remember you don’t need the luck of the irish to sell your home with Sharon Nolan”.
Recorded with my camera-phone off the TV.
Watch this movie at YouTube
Well, the fucking bird has made a nest and hatched several screaming chicks.
Behind my head.
At least it’s not a pigeon.
Check out Ze Frank's The Show if you haven't already.
I was doing a design for a newspaper header, as part of an icon for something I’m working on. I thought it would look best with a little emblem in the middle of the title, something like the National Gazette logo.
It’s a fairly throw-away piece, and the icon is only 60 pixels wide and 16 pixels tall, so I decided just to use a text ornament. I loaded up the keyboard viewer, select Bodoni Ornaments, and started flicking through the different options.
I found the one shown below and was sure I found exactly what I was looking for. That was until I put it into Photoshop and realised there was probably a reason I liked it so much.
This is worse than the last time.
In other news, I’ve just turned 24.
Check it out! More unbelievable stuff on the way.
Answer: pretty fucking gay.
Friends of mine will know that I have a special place in my heart for the music of David Gray; a place which is cold and vicious. I can tolerate his music in the background, when it is indistinct and muffled; but once I find out that it’s him, when I hear his grating, shallow voice I just have to escape.
So imagine my joy today when my two great loves of David Gray and comment spam combined to produce David Gray comment spam.
Blog title courtesy of Phil.
While I was thinking “Why the heck is this supposed to be funny?” I noticed something in the sidebar. You know when a new piece of information enters your head and it confuses you, so your brain instantly goes to work - looking at it from a few different angles, trying to figure it out - only to realise that you’ve just picked up a live mental hand-grenade and you need to get it out of your mind as quickly as possible?
I don’t think mere words can truly describe the horror, so here’s what I saw:
Can you see it? Yes, that is one awful drop shadow. Of course, then I looked to the left and for a moment I thought I heard my own mind scream right back.
My strong morbid curiosity compelled me to check this out. So I went to Conservative Match.com and had a look. Once I saw their fantastic slogan, “Sweethearts, not bleeding hearts”, I knew I wanted to do a parody site.
So I started to looking around for things to change. It was then, that I saw the dinner-party photo:
On the surface, it looks like some couples are having a nice, pleasant evening in. But look closely at the photo. There are five people in it: two white women, two white men and one black man. There can only be two couples here, and I’m pretty sure the black man is the odd-one-out. Here's why:
This is far funnier than if I’d just replaced the turkey with a baby.
The continued adventures of Steve the Potato.
Watch this movie at YouTube
Watch this movie at YouTube
Hopefully more to come today (if YouTube stops acting the spa). Update: It has, moved video to YouTube.
Paul Donnan on rap music:
It's amazing that fucking rubbish lyrics work so well for rap music...
...reuse the following words as often as possible: "fuck, shit, hoes, motherfucking, cock, dick". Then insert random English-sounding words to pad out those pesky in between the good word bits.
Seeing as the old Minds crew were about to depart, we decided to have a little fun with Photoshop for the AGM. The first attempt was pretty middling, but I managed to hit on an idea and ran with it.
Here we are:
It's Valentines day today. I'm sure we'll all soon hear from people complaining about their lack of cards this year. It's really hard to listen to people boast about such “misfortune” when I've never received a single Valentine's day card in my life. In your face, misfortune boasters!
But I don't want your pity. I'm not looking for sympathy. Don't feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for Steve.
Steve has no legs. Steve has stumpy tentacles instead of arms. Steve cries green tears of sadness. Steve is a potato. Steve has an unsharpened pencil jammed right through his head. Steve never gets picked for games. Steve has no digestive system. Steve is covered in blotches. Steve lives in a plastic bag under the sink.
Poor Steve. Poor, poor Steve.
I think the consensus is that the best thing for a child is a stable login home, no matter if the parents are gay or not.
The only problem is the legal one.
You're such a fucking nerd.
Don't know where login came from.
I've never heard a man complain about being late, at least not with the same level of concern.
Lord. You can imagine where it goes from here.
He fixes the cable?
I'm running through some tshirt slogans:
Never presume that your opponent in an argument is on the same page, or even the same planet, as you.
For example, it's hard to have an argument about whether or not the universe is infinite with someone who thinks zingers like
conciousness is considered a dimention and so is the ability to dream are relevant.
I couldn't make this stuff up. Thankfully, someone else did, saving me the embarrasment of failure.
Not the same page, not the same planet. It's times like these that I'm glad I have a thick forehead... it hurts less when I bang it off my desk.
Here's my English teacher's comments on my first essay in fifth year. It was a short story, a blatant rip-off of Terry Pratchett's work. It was uninspired and dull, a blatant waste of time with one sham of a storyline. I sure got some wonderful praise for it, though.
If I was a woman, and my picture came up for a search for the hottest woman on the planet, I know I'd be pretty chuffed. Someone should tell Ms Colan.
I found this post on Penny Arcade by looking at my referrer logs. It's amazing what you find there.
Shout el pollo diablo esta en mi pantalones y esta embarasando mi cabeza quite loudly.
The devils pole in my pants has embarrased me?
The devil chicken is in my pants and is impregnating my head.
I was talking to Claire today. Anyone who thinks that I'm a good man will have that illusion shattered by this conversation we had:
I am searching for a poem or a reading on love that we want you to read at the wedding service.
I think you should just go with the herpes one.
Ok. It's a done deal.
Sorted. I was thinking of stuff to put on my own wedding invitations, if and when I get married.
No, you'll like this one. There'd be a time table of events, and at the end would be "Sex", followed by "Sex", then "Making love". My granny would have an eppo.
Only if she had epilepsy.
No, this would give her epilepsy. And then the card would flash a light on and off rapidly.
I'm glad my Granny doesn't know how to use the internet.
I thought I'd lighten the tone a bit. Things are getting a bit serious, far too serious for my tastes. It's time to lighten things up a little.
This is a picture of me when I was a kid. It was Hallowe'en (at least, I hope it was Hallowe'en) and I had dressed up like a vampire. I think I made one bad-ass vampire.
What's ironic is that a couple of years later, I was convinced I was a werewolf. Sure, I didn't break out in fur every full moon; but I felt that the hair was just under my skin. I thought that I was some sort of kid werewolf, and that when I grew older the superhuman strength and agility (and bright, shiny, healthy-looking coat) would develop as a matter of course.
In short, I was a pretty crazy kid. Surely you can tell from the photo?
Thankfully, I've gotten over such childish delusions. Now I think I'm Spiderman.
I stayed in Rathmines last night, at my friend Pete's flat. While waiting for Pete outside McDonalds, a group of women walked by me and burst into song, singing:
I don't want anybody else,
And when I think about you I touch myself.
They continued shouting this at random guys as they walked down the street. Thankfully, they seemed drunk; this done sober would freak me out.
In nine days I turn twenty-two, and with a little luck I'll be moving out of my parent's house a couple of weeks later. In preparation for the big move I've been working my way through all the crap in my room, ruthlessly cutting the wheat (which goes into boxes) from the chaff (which goes into the bin). I've already filled two bags full of loose papers: guitar tabs, printed articles, newspapers and plain crap.
I found a couple of old note books, copy books and pads. Among them, I found a copy book from my third-year of secondary school. It's labelled "Warhammer 40,000". This is not going to be good.
Along with pages after pages of crap about that lame-ass game, including several pages of me talking to myself in written form, there's a couple of lyrics.
When I was 14, I fancied myself as something of a songwriter. I was wrong. Here's one such "song" (capitalisation preserved):
Life goes on,
Where did the magic go;
Faced with a decision,
And I Gotta say no.
Don't want to go,
Don't want to say,
That I don't trust you no more,
Have to live my life my way.
I've gone Bezerk,
I'm called a jerk;
But they're gone to the other side,
They're gone to the dark side.
Excuse me, I think I'm going to be sick.
So Zooley, who draws some seriously cool pictures ( 1, 2, 3 ) is complaining about why telekinetic superheroes use their powers so stupidly.
I think he's asking too much. Have you any idea how hard it is to visualise someone's internal organs? Let's face it, we don't really think about such things. I met my friend Paul today, and the fact that he had a spleen didn't cross my mind.
I'm far too tired to continue with this entry. I'll leave you with some really strange ad copy from Komplett:
Pentium 4 2.8 GHz: Faster than a weasel on rollerblades.
In response to the claim that Santa isn't real:
I shot Santa with my 12-gauge. Motherfucker was trying to steal my pies.
I said: "Get yo hands off my pies, bitch".
Then he called me a ho, so I blasted his ass back to the north pole.
On finding out that a someone had made an online questionaire to find out what type of kiss you had:
You have a vomit kiss. Your partner is always trying to dodge the advances of your lips, because quite frankly your breath stinks of puke. Perhaps you should spice things up with some breath mints, or maybe just roll up into the corner and die?
And my personal favourite, how I expressed my legend status to the web audience:
For various reasons which I will not go into at the moment because I don't feel like it, I have the urge to provide wholly unsolicited but practical advice to writers. So here it is. Why should you as a writer listen to my advice? No reason except that I published two books last year, will publish two books this year and am likely to publish another couple of books next year, and aside from that I make a whole lot of money doing what I do. On the other hand, I am also famously a cranky blowhard who readily admits to having his head up his ass a lot of the time. So take it or leave it.
Even More Long-Winded (But Practical) Writing Advice, from John Scalzi.
You heard me. Those filthy grey feathered flying rats. Half of them have club feet because of pigeon leprosy, and all of them are out to get me.
This probably seems paranoid to you. "O", you laugh, "that pigeons are one nuisance of a pest is no excuse for paranoid delusions!" And you'd be right; that is no cause for suspicion of some sort of pigeon conspiracy. What is a reason is the amount of times that I have been cornered, chased and buzzed by pigeons. Just today one came within inches of my head. And that is nothing to the insult that is having stinking pigeon pooh launched into your face.
I will walk down the street, and several pigeons will converge on my position, walling me in until there is no escape. These are the only creatures I can say I would be happy to burn alive (preferably by shooting one of those flaming arrows into them).
So much do I hate them, that I have taken a cue from McDonalds and made a little jingle. It's called Pigeons, and is in my best skanger accent.
I can't figure it out. Maybe it's my fine ass, my poorly shaven facial hair or my penis. I don't mind; I've finally received the recognition I obviously deserve.
The doctor starts to give me a little lecture about the importance of performing monthly checks on myself, but it's hard to keep a straight face because my DJ is wearing a surgical mask he found in one of the doctor's drawers and pretending to scratch his records with a tongue depressor. I'm really relieved about not having testicular cancer, and I have to restrain myself from singing along with the words to the sample my DJ drops every twelve measures or so. The doctor gives me a little plastic card to hang in my shower that shows me how to check for lumps. Motherfucker say what, I mouth to the beat. My DJ encourages the doctor to throw his hands up, but the doctor declines.
From "My DJ" by Brian Bieber.
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