Where they grow these mushrooms, I don’t know, but I reckon that place warrants a visit.
Mum: I think I want to see the Avengers movie.
Me: Avengers?? You mean X-men?
Mum: Yeah, sure that. They were doing a cheap midnight showing here but I can’t do that any more.
Mum: Because I fall asleep.
Me: You fall asleep? You pay $10 to go to the cinema and fall asleep? So, when’s the last time you paid for a nap?
Mum: When I went and saw the last Harry Potter film with your uncle.
Me: If you were there with him, why didn’t he wake you up?
Mum: I think he was embarrassed because he fell asleep too and didn’t want to say anything.
Me: [uncontrollable laughter]
This is genuinely the second Windows post I’ve made! Why? Fucking Windows 8.
I’m confused and discombobulated and just….ugh, not with it. Thanks for this PiC! It’s okay, I still love you, mostly. But you invited this shit. I am in my own bum.
You had to wait because I somehow engaged the ‘features’ screen and couldn’t navigate away from it! Even with Escape. Why does the escape button not work? Fuck you, Microsoft and your bullshit buttons or soft keys or wank holes! I will shit in your mouth! Suck arse.
Windows 8 is like the 2012 Red Sox. Perhaps a good idea on paper, but a complete mindfuck in reality.
Start button! Where the holy fuck is my start button??!! *cries*
(it took 33 days to post this update because the start screen activated for no reason, [like a sentient Decepticon robot cock master who would like to ruin my life] and it has taken me this long to get back here. I am a prisoner of my own devices!
What’s up Red Sox?
Hey how’s it going? Yeah, not good. I noticed. You look like death warmed over.
I had intended on writing something completely different today. Something fun and light hearted and possibly hilarious. Possibly.
Sadly, it was not meant to be. Because this happened.
Right now, I’d like to be one of those fans that can ‘check out’ when everything starts swirling down the toilet, but I’m not, and I don’t know if I ever could be. To be honest, I’d be more than fashionably late to that party now anyway. I’d be the drunk asshole who shows up to your house at two in the morning drunk out of my mind and proceed to fondle your girlfriend’s boobs while I thought you weren’t looking. Because, damn Red Sox, you be fucking with my emotions. And the best way I can express myself at this time is by groping your lady’s mams.
As you well know, you started this asinine behaviour this time last year. I tolerated it at first. Thinking it was just a phase and you would stop as you had before. But this time it was different. You were different and I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was going on. So I hung around. I waited. I thought you knew what you were doing. You didn’t, I now realise.
And it’s not going to end. Not in the foreseeable future anyway. From my calculations we have exactly 13 more months and a metric ton of shit to dig through before there’s even half a chance of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.
You can call it ‘restructuring’ or ‘rebuilding’ or whatever the fuck you want; I call your lack of foresight and front office transparency a massive middle finger to the people who make your franchise a lucrative one. It’s gotten to the point that there really aren’t a lot of nice things I can say about you these days. You’ve got a few shining beacons left knocking around the clubhouse, but for how much longer, who can say?
I’m here to tell you Red Sox, as your friendly relationship advisor, you need to sort yourself out because you’re ruining this. Ruining US. You have the adoration of the masses and more than a million people who are effectively so in love with you that, even though you continue fucking all of us in our mud holes with absolutely no lube, we carry on asking for more. Begging you to plug our poop chutes with your sandpaper knobs because for some reason we like that sort of thing.
I remember my grandfather imparting some very insightful wisdom when I was just a wee tot sat on his knee in 1986 (I’m sure the significance is not lost) he said – You can say you’re done, but you never are. They’ll break your heart only to mend it and lift you up only to crush you at a later time.
And it’s true. We only leave to come back. At least that’s what you keep telling us.
We always hear the nonsense phrase that ‘without the bad you cannot truly appreciate the good’. You become lazy, flaccid and complacent when you don’t have to work hard for anything. But dropping a ball off a cliff that cannot be scaled and then asking someone to bring it back to you after you’ve kicked them swiftly off the edge with a smug look on your face is not the way to go about getting that hard work done.
Buck up, take a deep fucking breath and apologise. To us. We deserve it. And if you don’t think so? All may well be shattered, at least for now. Otherwise, whilst you may not lose us forever, we’ll never quite love you the way we used to.
Yours in life and in baseball, Platy
Crashy, crashy you log of smeg- Eating my posts and biting my leg- Worked for an hour writing that piece- Now I’m sat here hating your face. Should I blame WordPress, or my lack of save? No, I will blame you, you fucking knave.
I hate you, I hate you IE9- Your designers are tosspots, your interface a crime. I have no more words to say about this, except I wish FireFox wasn’t such a piece of piss.