Bzzzzzzzz
March 11th, 2010

Self-Help : The Office Worker Diet

Are you tired of sagging over the sides of your cramped office chair, or the way your arm chafes against your side when you’re sat idly staring at a screen? Each mouse-move can be hell with a developing rash. Cram won’t cut it, will it? You’ve tried that. If anything, it seems to dry it out more. What will you do? What CAN you do?

You’re big. You’re happy. You’re a woman. You’re unabashedly proud of your ‘curvy femininity’. However, all you talk about is losing weight, weight loss and the process of weight reduction. Regardless of how comfortable you are in your own skin, you’re desperate to shed it and move in to a thinner, more toned outer shell. You cry, whinge and bitch whilst stuffing your face. It’s time to either shut up or do something about it.

We, at ‘The Onlybees Specialist Scientific Environment Room’, may have the perfect answer for today’s busy office worker on the slow.

We can help you lose some weight! Not through exercise, monitoring your food-intake or any other popular ‘fad’ diet the Sunday Papers might be peddling. Scientifical results? Who needs those! Eh? Eh!

Instead, it’s achieved by following a compiled a list of well-known and well-practised dieting techniques, cribbed from the health-centric and clever-minded individuals who work in offices JUST LIKE YOU DO! These little inside tips and tricks will get you well on the way to feeling like you might soon be well on the way to feeling like you’re about to start the process of beginning to drop a dress size.

Obviously you can’t stop yourself eating – you might die if you skip a Mars Bar – but if you follow these simple ideologies, you’ll see the weight drop off almost instantly. Or you should do, in theory…I mean, why else would they be so prevalent in today’s image-conscious society? The only other explanation would be that the people who practise it day-in, day-out, were just kidding themselves and talking absolute dogshit in an effort to feel better about their very-real failure to lose even a single pound. Which would be fucking ridiculous.

So, throw logic out of the window, put down your glossy magazine and START TO START LOSING WEIGHT!

 1. Sharing is caring. Sharing isn’t eating.
Say, for example, you have a fairly large lunch that your brain is telling you not to eat. “You’re too fat!” it screams. “You’ve already ate enough, you’re not hungry!”. But then the chocolate bar you bought from Boots is still sat on your desk staring at you…SHARE IT! Grab a colleague who’s also following this mind-bending diet and throw half her way. The calories from the half you eat will negate themselves, evaporated by your simple kindness. This works well with anything from a Twix to a bag of hula hoops. With any luck, your chocolate-eating partner will also fall in to line and share half of HER chocolate with YOU! Everybody wins.

2. Go to weightwatchers each week but ignore the diet.
It’s important to know what your ‘base weight’ is. Or how are you going to know when you’ve lost anything? However, it is very important you don’t actually follow their diet. Their method of calorie-counting and point-watching is actually evil. It still helps, though, to go each week and give them upwards of £5 a go for them to weigh you. Don’t worry if you’ve put weight on, their scales are probably broken and you definitely remember eating that banana, so you MUST have lost weight. It does help, however, to still plough money into their organisation by buying books, motivational t shirts and pens that advertise your involvement in the scheme – each penny they collect pushes their evil tendencies further back, appeasing their evil, demonic, skinny overlords. That is clearly the only explanation.

3. Diet Coke is the Holy Grail of fat-loss.
Just chowed down on a super-sized Big Mac meal with an extra fries? Order it with a Diet coke. Not because you’re calorie counting, oh no! Diet Coke actually works like an elixir, cancelling out the calories from the greasy meal and zapping flab from unwanted areas whilst it’s at it, with it’s patented “Flabzap” formula. Drink as many cans of this as possible during a single day.

4. Coke as a replacement for Diet Coke.
If you’re following the above rule religiously, but your workplace are too inconsiderate to immediately replenish the stock of Diet Coke in your nearest vending machine after your twelfth can (God-forbid you might be forced to walk to a further one), then regular Coca-Cola will magically transform itself into Diet Coke and perform the same task. It’s a well-kept secret, used by all the models in Paris, Milan, and all of those other places you’ll soon be able when you’re below the size restrictions for most major airlines.

5. If it’s free, it doesn’t count.
Exactly what it says on the (Quality Street) tin. If you don’t have to pay for it, it doesn’t carry any calories. Sweets or biscuits brought in by kind hearted colleagues are fair game here, as are crisps etc left carelessly sat on shop shelves. Knock yourself out, skinny-minnie!

6. The ‘Diet-Lining’ manoeuvre.
Perhaps you’re sick of drinking those ‘Diet’ varieties of soft drinks…or the ‘Zero’s of this world are really bumming you out. They just don’t taste the same as regular, full-fat cans of fizz do they? Well, worry not my well-rounded padawan. A trick for you, there is. The diet-giving goodness of these so-called ‘healthier’ drinks are only located around the very edge of whatever receptacle they come in – something easily faked. You can fool the full-fat drinks into chucking out their calories whilst still retaining their throat-shredding flavour by glazing the inside of a glass with a slight basting of the diet variety, and filling it up with your favourite tipple. Through the miracle of ‘SCIENCE!’, the diet particles eat away at the fat enzymes and blah blah you’ve well stopped reading by now.

7. Walking up one set of stairs then getting the lift the rest of the way is the most optimum form of exercise.
That way, you can still say “I took the stairs!” without bare-face lying to your co-workers, and fooling your body into thinking you’ve done more exercise than you actually have. Your gut will be scared away! Bare-faced lying also works too, but not to the same extent.

8. Convenience isn’t lazy. It’s intelligent.
Imagine, if you will, that the place you often go to for lunch, the one that sells nice, crisp salads happens to be closed one day. Or, simply, it’s further away than the place that will sell you a bucket of gravy and chips for £2. In either case, it’s absolutely acceptable to substitute the modest, healthy meal for it’s bigger, stodgier brother. When you think about it, it’s all down to physics. You burn more calories off by carrying the heavy bucket back than you would carrying the tiny, light salad – even if you did smother it in mayonnaise.

9. Snacks aren’t wack.
Everyone – psh, EVERYONE – knows that food ate outside of designated meal times is barely food. Eat away, baby. Still, stick to your three main meals. They’re the most important, after all. You’d positively waste away if you skipped a lunch or two.

10. Positive reinforcement = Thin!
Picture the scene…you’re feeling low…your arm-rests are digging in and your self-image is worse than a picture of James Corden f*llating an amorous male Duck.

“I feel gross”, you say to the world at large. Your pained missive lands in the ears of your beloved, kind co-workers. “Don’t be silly!” they cry in unison, “You look fine!”.

They’d be remiss if they were ever to lie to you, and it’s not like they’d just be saying it to keep you from moaning or anything. No, contrary to what your own eyes are screaming, you look fabulous. Grab yourself a celebratory Snickers and keep on living the high life. You’ve earned it.

11. Join a gym.
Firstly, you’ll lose some weight just filling out their copious forms, dragging a pen across several pieces of A4 until your fingernails bleed, so that’s a good start. However, just because you’ve joined a gym and subsequently spent another few hundred pound on sickeningly tight fitness gear, it doesn’t mean you should attend. You might hurt yourself, there-by forcing to sit on a couch all day long where you’d only end up getting really fat. And besides, just joining a gym is equal to an entire months worth of exercise. If you continue paying the fees beyond the one month trial, award yourself one large bar of Galaxy chocolate per day.

12. Thinking about exercise = exercise.
“I might go for a run later…NOM NOM NOM”.

That’s all it takes.

13. Do not, under any circumstances, do any actual exercise.
Exercise is the devil. All of these thin people who tell you they keep in shape by eating right and a few hours of exercise per week are simply minions of hell. They should be ignored, undermined, and b*tched about behind their back as much as possible. Their opinions must be immediately debunked, or dismissed with talk of imaginary, debilitating illnesses. I.e. – “I’d like to run too, but I can’t because my right knee is actually made of pasta”*.

14. Hard crack addiction.
Seriously, it’s your last hope of dropping south of 20 stone.

 

 

*Please stop planning to eat your own knee.

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March 9th, 2010

Why I won’t be watching Shutter Island…(Spoiler warning)

Shutter Island.

I was half-excited for this film, an adaptation of a book I’ve never heard of because I am an uncultured swine. Or it’s unreadable, generic pap…one of the two. The film is coming out in a bit of a dry season for good cinema, with nothing on the schedule really catching my eye. ‘The Crazies’ is out could be interesting, but I missed any hype there might have been for that, and a few lacklustre reviews means I’ll probably wait a few months for Lovefilm to drop it at my doorstep. Kevin Smith’s next directorial shot, ‘Cop Out’, is miles off because I happen to live in the UK and Warner Bros hates me. No other films have really jumped on to my radar in a meaningful way. ‘Alison Wonderland’ looks like a ridiculous CGI-ridden mess, and the pairing of Burton and Depp is wearing as thin as a celebrity girlfriend.

Plus the last film I dragged myself to was ‘The Wolfman’, in which Del Toro gives a masterclass of looking thoroughly bored and Hugo Weaving plays a talking moustache. It was so horribly bad I wanted to, ironically, grow fur and maul everyone.

So when I saw Shutter Island was out this week, I was a little bit interested. I made plans to go and see it, checked times, and sat feeling smug that I had an alterative to spending my Friday night eating pizza and throwing Southern Comfort down my throat. My liver did a little dance. I also re-watched the trailer, which I first saw before a screening of ‘Moon’, and it was suitably creepy, building tension days before I would even see the film proper. I was very interested. I love those precious few ghost movies that mess with your head and burrow into your psyche so you jump at every shadow on the way home. I even thought ‘The Sixth Sense’ was good, though it wasn’t exactly a horror film. There are precious few of these films, because even when they start off well, they’re usually ruined by a bloody stupid plot twist towards the end.

Except I will now never bother to watch ‘Shutter Island’, and this pre-emptive review (er…preview?) will tell you why. I’ll try not to swear loads, but can’t promise anything. Also, obviously, spoiler alert.

Yes, I read the story outline on Wikipedia. Couldn’t help it. I effectively ruined the film for myself and I’m so incredibly glad I did, because it would have only made me angry. The ending is the type you joke about over your popcorn during the trailers, pre-film and post-’Dallas’. You’ll be whispering quietly, hazarding guesses at what direction the plot will take, and someone will undoubtedly say “It’s all a dream! DiCaprio will wake up in the shower!” and you’ll all politely laugh at your friends rubbish joke.

Now, it isn’t exactly that, but it’s about on par. Basically, the story decides to eat itself and winds up screaming “It’s all in his head!”, whilst shoving it’s foot firmly down it’s own throat. Faux-psychology wrapped up in a supposedly intriguing plot that makes me want to throw up on whatever bored writer thought ‘Yep, that’ll wrap it up nicely’. It’s a twist designed to shock you, much like “Bruce is dead!” in The Sixth Sense. Except all it really does is kill the rest of the film, making all the scares up to that point entirely redundant. As it’s all in his head, it doesn’t even nearly exist, and only he sees it…so what, exactly, are you being scared of? The notion that some other man’s lack of marbles is giving him a bit of a shiver? Ooo.

If a man approached you in the street, and told you the most harrowing tale you could ever imagine, full of terrifying depravity and laced with supernatural happenings, and somehow managed to convince you it was all entirely real, but then ended by saying something like “and that’s when I woke up!”, would you be pleased? You’d be thrown back into reality, and you’d be pissed off at the crazy man for wasting your time. Dreams are boring when recountered, regardless of the content. Do you really want to give upwards of £7 to a cinema so you can learn that, no matter how expertly it was told, a mental patient had a bit of a nightmare?

Assuming it was a well made flick (which, being Scorsese, it probably is), it’s likely the film doesn’t exactly hint at it before the final reveal, otherwise it’d ruin the movie even more. So it might be entertaining right up until the final scene, but if I’d been sat in the cinema, gripped by every scene up to that point, I’d have been absolutely livid by the pointlessness of the ending. Saying “It’s all in his head” negates any impact the film might have had up to that point, and effectively kills what interest I’d had. Knowing full well it’ll send me into an irate rage, I’m going to give it a miss. They should put a warning on the poster, underneatht the tagline: “Warning: The Ending Is Retarded”. You could have the best sex of your life, but if your partner hops off you before climax, and slaps you in the face, you wouldn’t be ecstatic about it. Well, unless you’re into that. Whatever. Anyway.

It makes me angry simply because they could have mentioned it at the start, and we could have all gone home early. It means every scene that preceeded the big finale was rubbish, pointless, and only the character played by DiCaprio knew any of it was going on. I’d be expecting to see people wandering around with cups of coffee, reading the newspaper whilst he ran around screaming and pointing at figments of his own imagination. Imagine the exact same film from another characters point of view (except, maybe, for any of the ghosts, as they don’t exist at all). Say, one of the doctors in the mental home. There might be a layer of sinister intent to the whole thing, but you’d be watching Leo chase around an innocuous building, probably humming his own dramatic soundtrack.

“It’s time for your meds, Leo. Sit still a second…”

“NO! I can’t! I must avenge my dead wife! Dum dum, dum dum dum dum…do dooooooo dum dum dummmm…”

The reason I hate this sort of ending is because it reeks of laziness – I understand it’s based on a book that probably uses the same tired ending, and I am basing my entire opinion on a Wikipedia plot summary, but still. Why can’t we just have a straight-up ghost story, one that takes all the shocks, scares and psychological trauma of the genre and then doesn’t fuck it up at the end? No trickery, no contrived Scooby-Doo twists where the mask is yanked off, revealing a series of utterly fucking useless events beneath the glossy, latex sheen. I want a horror film that uses ghosts to their full, nerve-shredding potential, without a caveat at the end that drags them back in to the real world with a boring, often obviously-signposted explanation, or into the mind of someone you don’t really care about. Or if you are going to do that, make it interesting. Watching a film that largely takes place inside a man’s head, helping him deal with his problems and come out of it a better man at the end? That’s not scary. That’s a session on a psychologists couch.

And ‘Mirrors’, ‘House On Haunted Hill’, et al don’t count, because they were shit.

I want to be scared without having to wait around to have the film ruined for me.

I think, basically, I just want to sit in a cinema and play Silent Hill 2.

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March 5th, 2010

Rant!!! Not mine, either.

An email send around in my work earlier.

Hi Guys
 
Sorry, but can you please stop taking Milk that belongs to other people.
 
We buy this Milk for our Breakfast, so that we don’t use the Milk provided by the office for Coffee & Tea.
 
If you are going to use someone else’s Milk, can you at least have the common decency to ask first.
 
Thanks
 
XXXX XXXX
Payroll
XXX
 
Now, I don’t go anywhere near the fridge so I don’t know, but it seems like a big deal to some people. I’m still going to mock it. I like how ‘Breakfast’ is capitalised.
Here:
——————————————————
Hi Guys
 
Sorry, but can you please stop taking Dick that belongs to other people.
 
We buy this Dick for our Breakfast, so that we don’t use the Dick provided by the office for Coffee & Tea.
 
If you are going to use someone else’s Dick, can you at least have the common decency to ask first.
 
Thanks
 
XXXX XXXX
Payroll
XXX
———————————————–
Hi Guys
 
Sorry, but can you please stop taking former WWE Wrestler X-Pac that belongs to other people.
 
We buy this former WWE Wrestler X-Pac for our Breakfast, so that we don’t use the former WWE Wrestler X-Pac provided by the office for Coffee & Tea.
 
If you are going to use someone else’s former WWE Wrestler X-Pac, can you at least have the common decency to ask first.
 
Thanks
 
XXXX XXXX
Payroll
XXX
—————————————————
Hi Milk
 
Sorry, but can you please stop taking Guys that belongs to other people.
 
We buy these Guys for our Breakfast, so that we don’t use the Guys provided by the office for Coffee & Tea.
 
If you are going to use someone else’s Guys, can you at least have the common decency to ask first.
 
Thanks
 
XXXX XXXX
Payroll
XXX
Feel free to add your own. Most imaginative wins an emailed picture of a cookie with the word ‘cunt’ written on it with icing.

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by Chris | Posted in Life | No Comments » | Tags: , ,
March 5th, 2010

AHAHA except not really.

I hate office humour. I hate it. Loath it. It’s so obnoxiously shit and should be punishable by public beatings or at least a short walk over a floor covered in thumb tacks and up-turned plugs. On fire. In the dark.

It’s disgusting.

The type of ‘joke’ that’s borne from a single, stupid misunderstanding or minor non-event that the wheelie-chair jockeys latch on to and repeat, ad nauseum – all day – until your eyes bleed and your brain begins to starve itself of oxygen, screaming for a way out. It might be a slight trip or a stumble whilst carrying a cup of tea, that magically transforms into OH MY DAYS, DID YOU HEAR WHAT ALF DID EARLIER? HE FELL! FELL! THERE WAS TEA EVERYWHERE! IT WAS A TEA-MAGEDDON! AHAHAHA!. This piss-poor excuse for conversation is then usually repeated to the people who were present, and already know full well the banality of the situation, but still join in the guffawing like retarded hyena’s choking on speedballs. Then some other poor fucker, usually someone like me, will wander past minding their own business, carrying various bits of paper and trying to look busy enough to divert the attention of anyone in charge. And they’ll be stopped, perhaps physically, and the entire bloated saga will be retold, acquiring various bells and whistles along the way. A shitty re-imagining of something that barely happened. It’d be like re-making ‘The Happening’ or something. The hapless office-worker in question will then mutter a polite ‘lol’ or some other appeasing utterance and try to be on their way. Except they won’t be allowed to go.

Oh, no.

They didn’t find it funny enough, did they. So more ‘AHAHA’S will be barked, and the story will be told again at a higher decibel. “YOU WILL FIND THIS FUNNY!” they scream, blind to the fucking obvious fact that THEIR AUDIENCE WILL NOT.

This epic retelling will happen every time someone new happens to walk past, regardless of how many other poor bastards are sat in the vicinity, hearing the same tepid story for the sixteenth time within the hour. Often, the same people will be collared, again, and have it rammed down their throat, again. Occasionally the jabbering twat-tards will recruit another comedy leech, who’ll hook on to the main group and throw in their own AHAHA’s, and repeat it again to the same unfortunate folk who the first lot have already grabbed. It’s like a violently depressing mobious strip. You can’t see where it ends or why the fuck it’s so interesting.

“OHMIGODDIDYOUHEARWHATALFDID?”

“Yes. Yes I did. Off at least six people. I also got the circulated email and the stack of post-it notes you left me.”

“WELLLETMETELLYOUAGAINBECAUSEITISBRILLIANTOHMYGODYOUWILLLAUGH”

And out of mis-guided politeness and an over-all desire to not be fired for lashing out and scraping a co-worker’s tongue out with a biro, before punching holes in it with one of those little machines (forget what they’re called), you sit, and you smile, and you listen again. Acutely aware that you’re stabbing yourself in the thigh with a compass; you can feel the blood dripping down into your socks and you fantasise about being anywhere – anywhere – other than where you are right now. Your brain flits happily to a dream-land, where you’re stuck in a Beirut prison, sucking cocks to avoid a shivving. It’s happier there.

But, I digress. As with most of these shoddily written tirades of abuse, my thinly-veiled anger is actually centred around a real-life incident that has happened, and managed to catch the attention of my ire. Office Humour. I hate it.

An example:

Yesterday, an elastic band was being idly played with by a bored co-worker; thumbed and stretched and twisted around fat, useless fingers when it suddenly decided it’d had enough and it darted off, up into the air and landed innocuously on the ground a few feet away.

That doesn’t sound like award-winning comedy, does it? But that’s where you’d be WRONG. Clearly. You fucking moron. This is Graham Linehan territory, this. It’s destined to go down in history as the single funniest occurrence since Jade Goody kicked the bucket. It’s absolute fucking GOLD. Duh. How did you not realise? Are you stupid or something? Maybe you didn’t hear the exact details, so I’ll repeat it again, louder and a little too close to your face for comfort.

Yesterday! An elastic band was being HILARIOUSLY played with! Thumbed and stretched and twisted around glorious, comedy-imbued fingers! When it suddenly decided it’d had enough! And it darted off, up into the air and landed INCREDIBLY FUNNILY on the ground a few feet away! AHAHAHA.

Ahaha inDEED.

I got back to my depressing little desk and was greeted by the shining, happily spastic faces of all of my co-workers (I am genuinely fucked if any of them ever find this site). They were eager to tell me the news; some literally bursting at the seams.

And they told me the story, each of them.

“Oh” I said, sitting down and flicking my monitor back on. Wrong answer. Incorrect reaction. Error 404: Humour Not Found. I didn’t say “AHAHA!” and run off to tell the cleaner, like they expected any normal person to do.

So they told me again, highlighting each point and bookending it with more hysterical laughter.

Strangely, I didn’t double over in fits of torrential laughter this time either.

The worst part of it is, one co-worker wasn’t in work yesterday. They are in today; so it took less than ten minutes of the working day before I heard the entire story yet again, this time with the added bonus that it almost hit someone. So yesterday’s piece of nothing suddenly becomes the hottest topic today. I’ll be surprised if it isn’t on the company homepage by lunchtime.

The strength of this particular brand of innocuous humour lives and dies on the strength, or weakness, of your imagination. If you can hear the above story and stop your brain immediately leaping to something more interesting (say, a blue pen) then you have a chance of finding it funny. If, however, you prefer your comedy to have any sort of substance or funny bits, you’re destined to remain outcast from their inbred society, living off scraps of genuine humour. Or reading Twitter all day.

For example, something half-funny happened regarding the elastic band incident. During one particularly hellish retelling late yesterday afternoon, one of the less intelligent specimins cried out “HA! THEY SHOULD CALL YOU THE……….”.

Then they stopped, and fear flashed across their eyes as they realised they had absolutely nothing else to say. No ending to the sentence they’d birthed without thinking. A horrid botched-abortion of a line that had no right to exist in the first place.

Five seconds passed and “…..band…..” dripped from their mouth, desperately fighting against itself, not wanting to be heard.

Another lengthy gap of vapid nothingness passed as her audience waited with baited breath. Or, in my case, lurching awkwardness smothered in cringeworthy comedy. Then “…..snapper…..” came out, rounding off the full sentence. Was it an attempt at a nickname? Was she about to say something offensive and had to do a mental u-turn at the last second? Is she just a bit thick? We may never know.

“That was pathetic!” I said, smashing the silence with a hammer. “Why did you even bother talking?”. Mean, maybe, but I’m all about negative reenforcement.

It was priceless, watching her slowly die inside as the words refused to come, culminating in the most pointless line of the whole escapade.

Anyway, rant over. You band-snapper.

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February 28th, 2010

Speedoman

The first of many pointless, fucking stupid “Superheroes” I plan to make up between now and the end of time. Whatever keeps me busy, like.

Speedoman! Not Paedoman.

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by Chris | Posted in Pics | No Comments » | Tags: , ,
February 27th, 2010

The VizpodChriscast… Also featuring Marc!

PODCAST! LISTEN! CUNTS!

27-02-2010%20VizpodChriscast1.mp3

Love,

Viz, Chris and, to a lesser extent, Marc.

PS – Cunts.

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by Chris | Posted in Misc | No Comments » | Tags: , ,
February 25th, 2010

Fuck Build-A-Bear

My views on Build-A-Bear will already be known to anyone who has been unfortunate to walk past one of their disgusting little outlets with me. I can’t help it; just a quiet stroll around town throws me into an irate, raging fury as soon as I see that bloody yellow sign and the retardedly chirpy members of staff; they’re worse than the ones in the Disney Store, where you have to be a special brand of mentally disabled just to qualify for an interview. The kind of person who would retain their unbroken smile and glassy-eyed look even through serious interrogation by shadey, underworld crime-bosses.

Now I feel like submitting my views to the internet, so I can just hand out post-it notes with a link scribbled on it to every disillusioned Dad dragged in there by a six year old attracted by the bright colours and false promises.

I understand, sort of, that some kids might like the idea of having a bear they ‘built’ themselves. But I don’t. I disgree, on the most basic level, with everything that the shop does, everything they sell, and the premise under which they sell it.

I’m thrown back to childhood whenever I see one, and a small, 8-year-old version of me is horrified by the thought of it all. That is then filtered through my innate ability to detest every single little thing on this earth and it comes out of 23-year-old me as a flurry of abusive tirades aimed at the sickly, corporate-approved ‘fun machine’ which idiot kids and child-like, retarded women, desperate to cling on to their youth with ever-yellowing fingernails seem to go fucking nuts over.

I know it’s all just unfounded spittle aimed at something I don’t like, and I know I’m over-thinking a complete non-subject but I don’t care. Fuck you. I don’t care that my views are crushed under the weight of every single other ‘tragedy’ in the modern world; I’m blinded by red bile burning a hole in my stomach.

First of all, not a single customer there actually ‘builds a bear’. Technically, all they are is the very final workers on a depressing, primary-coloured production line. Every kid who runs from the shop, giddy at having just forced their parent and/or groomer to shell out upwards of £15 on a worthless piece of tat is simply provided the company with the ability to save money on production and QA. Why employ workers to stuff the bears with cheap, irritation-causing fluff when the kid’s hapless parents will pay and extra £5 to see it shoved into their new object of desire? Nothing is built, just stuffed. ‘Stuff-A-Bear’ isn’t quite as friendly on the ears, though.

The actual bears are all there as soon as you walk in, sat hollow and lifeless on a shelf looking discarded like used condoms covered in fur. The only ‘building’ that is done is when the vicodin-addicted shopgirl shoves the deflated mess of material and stitching onto the end of the metal lovepole and jerks it around until it’s full of the white stuff. And you pay money for this. Yes, I’m linking ‘Build-A-Bear’ with the horrid prostitution of semi-unwilling, lifeless husks.

It might as well be called ‘Build-A-Whore’ and come with the option of inserting a Flesh-light where it’s fluffy guts should be.

Then there’s the machine itself, the one that ’stuffs’ them – it couldn’t be more unpleasent if it tried. And I’m under the sneaking suspicion that it DOES try. See, there’s a window on the side of it that shows all the bear’s soon-to-be innards, flowing around like inedible candy floss. Now, you have to remember that this is what goes inside the bears, it’s a mush of internal teddy-organs being pushed around a machine for your amusement. You sick bastard. Then, shining proud and stiff from the end of this machine, is a sharp metal pole which the carcass of the bear is viciously shoved on to and raped until it can’t take any more. They really should just stick a bell-end on it and be done with it.

Another option, which I believe costs about £1, is to put a ‘heart’ inside it. A little piece of plastic machinery that vibrates in methodic bursts, mimicking the heart beat. This means the bear is ‘alive’, which is fucking shocking considering the ordeal it’s just been forced through. This is all well and good for the first few weeks, and the small unwitting child is pleased as punch that their little bundle of furry joy is showing some signs of imitated life. But then that’ll break. The battery will run out or it’ll just cease to function because it’s a poorly-made piece of shit. Can you deal with the inevitable discussion on mortality with your small child?

“WHY IS MY BEAR DEAD, DADDY? WHY DID HE HAVE TO LEAVE ME? I BOUGHT HIM A LITTLE SPIDER-MAN OUTFIT AND EVERYTHING!”

It’s heart breaking. They’re even given a birth certificate. Are you ready to mock-up a death certificate when the bears heart ceases to beat? Are you comfortable burying £15 of your hard-earned cash in the garden whilst your young child weeps softly in the corner, unsure of what’s real anymore?

Fuck Build-A-Bear.

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February 22nd, 2010

If you found us through Google, you’re weird.

So, in an effort to write at least one thing a week, whilst also battling against severe boredom and a bit of writer’s block, I’ve decided to cannibalise the site itself in order to get some content.

The below is a list of ‘Search Terms’ that members of the ‘Internet’ put into a ‘Google’ and found this ’site’. All 100% real, and about 90% terrifying. Most give off an aura of the unclean, or are just plain weird. I want to put the website in the shower and hose it down, knowing these people have been reading it. Although I’m sure next week we’ll have at least one more hit from someone searching for “Hose it down website” or something.

The numbers after the terms are the amount of times it’s happened.

Search Terms

tony starck 19
This one is normal enough. I don’t have a problem with it. I guess quite a lot of people put Iron Man’s name into Google, and 19 of them found our site. I think I’ve mentioned it once. All good. So far, so ordinary.

site:www.onlybees.com onlybees.com 5
Again, fine. They’ve googled for the site address rather than put it in the address bar. Not a problem. Move along.

werewolf rape 3
Yep. This is where it starts getting a little weird. I don’t think I’ve mentioned it on the site (If I have, I’m sorry) and I’m not about to search for the same thing to check it out, but this isjust the first in a line of strange search terms. Werewolf rape.

delta taxi crossword 3
There was a few similar to this one. Basically, we received a crossword through our front door from a local taxi company. Mick threw the answers online…then people searched for it. Why the fuck would you cheat on a crossword that was put through your door? That’s like searching for the solution to the puzzles hidden in Milky Bar wrappers. And being a retard.

mogan fucking
Ah. Mogan isn’t that common a name, and one of my friends is named Stephen Mogan. So, the only logical conslusion is that Stephen Mogan has a sex tape that he doesn’t want people to know about, and he’s googled it himself to make sure it’s not popped up online. However, instead of stumbling upon the video of the bearded wonder hammering out his A-Game, he’s found something I’ve written that includes, seperately, the words ‘Fucking’ and ‘Mogan’. The dirty bastard.

“have eaten no”
This was searched for, and consequently found our site through, twice. I’d like to know what these people have eaten none of.

neon nazis 2
I really hope this was someone with far-right political view, but bad spelling.

white stripes stealing chris pontius rif 1
No idea.

“hot loner” 1
Let’s just blame Mick for this one and move on.

“no consequence” “tech metal” 1
Some unfortunate soul searching the the absolutely awful band ‘No Consequence’, who I ripped to shreds for being utter shite.

self help people fucked 1
We’re getting down into the ‘fuck’ ones now. There are quite a few. I can’t quite explain any of them but I’m starting to see the problems that my excessive swearing might cause.

free fuck viz 2
Exactly the same situation as Mogan, but for Viz. Maybe the video is Mogan and Viz, getting hardcore.

advent calendar with fuck 1
If this isn’t a thing already, I’m definitely patenting it. Every day in the run up to Christmas, you flick open a window and do whatever filthy, depreaved sex act that the baby Jesus tells you to.

fuck pcworld 2
I agree.

fuck cretin bssy movie 1
?

dog fuck 1
Mick’s fault again.

marty mcgovern 1
Marty clearly has a stalker. Go Marty. Also, I hope for his sake that it wasn’t a girl he fancies. The article all about him doesn’t put him in a lovely, take-to-meet-your-mother sort of light.

werewolfrape 1
AGAIN.

fuck to the future games 1
Is there a porno version of Back To The Future? I hope there is. “Where we’re going, we don’t need pants”.

fat people jokes in “workplace” 1
My reputation preceeds me.

facial characteristics of welsh people 1
Nose-deep in a sheep.

depressed? weird? 1
Yes. Why?

snow phallus liverpool 2010 1
Hehe. I’ve made many a snow-cock, so this one sort of makes sense.

18 teen fack in turkey 1
A cockney, looking for some over-seas boinking.

fuck bt option 3 not unlimited 1
Mick struck a nerve.

sister and dog fuçk 1
WHAT.

lord of the rings filmed in wales 1
It wasn’t, but thanks for asking.

writing about sausages 1
I don’t know.

what funny things should i shout out my window 1
“Anal”.

fat peoples bums 1
This shouldn’t be searched for. Never.

boys fuck cows 1
Hmm.

perfectly legal in this country wales 1
Not the sheep thing.

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by Chris | Posted in Misc | No Comments » | Tags: , , ,
February 12th, 2010

Paperchase Can Steal My Shit

After the furore that work-stealing bastards Paperchase caused recently (well, a design studio that Paperchase hired anyway), I thought I’d weigh in a little. A few days late, obviously. I don’t want to appear topical or anything.

The full story has already been covered by the people at BoingBoing (http://boingboing.net/2010/02/11/artist-chases-paperc.html) and probably every other reputable blog already, but essentially they used a design without permission. Then, they refused to acknowledge the artist when questioned about it. To put it bluntly, they were pricks about the whole thing. That was, until Twitter got hold of the story, and ran with it. Now, through the wonder of Twitter, they’ve been forced to issue a weak acknowledgement that’ll probably go absolutely nowhere. Because really, people being angry on Twitter is a bit like people being angry inside their own minds, or screaming into an empty void. Or telling Katie Price.

No one gives a shit.

Although I do agree that the artist in question was well within her rights to kick up a fuss. It’s a blatant, shameless copy of her work. They even made it look worse, by cluttering up the neat little drawing with all kinds of extraneous shit that didn’t need to be there. No one needs butterflies. No one.

To help avoid such a problem in the future, where genuine artists get shafted by a big faceless company (especially one with a sickly, faux-’we’re dead quirky look at our mad bags we’re MAD’ veneer), I’ve drawn some things that are absolutely fine to steal, rip-off or otherwise sodomise at their lesiure.

Really, folks. The below master-works are 100% free. I’m expecting to see them on tote-bags, album covers, rape alarms or the face of an elderly lady within a week.

They might not be the best quality, but fuck you, they’re free.

Larry The Lucky Loo-Roll

Use me on your bum! And be lucky all day long!

The Magic Square of Confused Misery

A really ugly bird, possibly with a disability.

Dinosaurus Rex

Captain Pirate

(Note, the above is bollocks and I will totally sue the living shit out of you if you use it anywhere. Because I can. I saved a man’s life in Nam, now he’s a big hotshot lawyer and he’ll come GUNNING FOR YOUR ASSES. Do you want your asses gunned? I thought not).

Also, because we, as a collective mass of Internet, are hilarious, can we start calling them Papercha$e? With a dollar sign where the ‘S’ should be. Like ‘Micro$oft. Because THAT sure didn’t get old the minute after the first PS3 fanboy spouted it on a games forum. No siree. lololol.

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February 11th, 2010

One Man & A Baby

Tomorrow, I’m being tasked with looking after my little 4-year old sister for an entire day. It’s the first time I’ve ever had to mind her on her own, having usually enlisted the help of my little brother who is better with this sort of thing. Sadly, that little bastard has gotten out of it by only being six years old and in school. I am tremendously under-prepared. This is the first time I’ve ever really been called into action as a responsible adult in charge of a smaller person’s life. For an entire day.
Now, if this was the early 90’s, I wouldn’t be writing this. No, instead, I’d be putting together plans for either: a) a film starring Ted Danson or b) a TV show, probably starring Ted Danson. A fish-out-of-water story about a man with a pouffy hair-do dubiously looking after a baby that is not his own, handily side-stepping the paedophile thing by making the baby kick-ass and street-wise. A light-hearted comedy where everything happens ‘With Hilarious Consequences’.
She’s going to smash something expensive. With Hilarious Consequences.

She’s going to eat too many sweet and throw up all over me/the dog. With Hilarious Consequences.

She’s going to go missing. With Hilarious Consequences.

I’m going to be in horrible over my depth. With Hilarious Consequences.

I’d have called it “With Hilarious Consequences”.

I’ve looked into it, and any kind of restraints for a full day is illegal and against her tiny little human rights. My problem is that she’s too quick, and she knows her house better than I do. I don’t know if there’s a way into some sort of crawl space between the walls, but she will. My day tomorrow will likely end in a country-wide manhunt, and she’ll just be sat in the shed all along, playing with the power tools. My day will end with my parents returning home to a fresh-faced, wide-awake little sister and me, covered in my own blood and dirt, falling asleep at the dining table.

With Hilarious Consequences.

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