This Isn't Funny.
First my son gets on here - I'll let him off.
Fucking Biffo?
It's only fair I suppose. Promised myself I'd leave him alone, but FUCK ME have you read anything at his place recently?
Fucking Biffo?
It's only fair I suppose. Promised myself I'd leave him alone, but FUCK ME have you read anything at his place recently?
posted by Tired Dad at
2:31 am
16 Comments:
You're obsessed, man! What's the ratio of you writing about me compared to writing about yourself? 50:50? It's not far off.
Do you have a shrine to me in a room of your house, which you go into at night, and cry yourself into a ball, while my face looks down from a hundred photographs, a voice ringing in your head, pointing out every time you could've done something halfway to interesting to your life, rather than sitting there in front of the TV bitching about missed opportunities?
I recommend therapy. You're in denial about some major demons there, guy.
Tired dad. Tired dad, tired dad, tired dad. What the fuck do you think you're making yourself look like, eh?
The obvious answer here is that you'll come back saying you're just baiting people who you think are getting too big for their boots, acting as some sort of - entirely self-appointed - arbiter of taste. But if you genuinely believe anyone buys that for even a second now, you're even dafter than I thought.
No, the moment you started writing about the banal goings on of your own life yet feel you still have carte blanche to comment on the quality of other people doing the exact same thing, it all becomes about ego. You're just a sad little man trying to stir up some rows to get a bit of infamy and probably a few more hits for themselves. It's really very, very pathetic. Almost as pathetic as the whole "hard-working northener" mindset you seem to have going on (if you're looking for dated, lazy writing styles to critique, start with yourself matey because there's one right there). We all work, we're all tired. Most of us just get on with it though rather than making out we have the burdens of the earth on our shoulders like some whiny self-important prick.
Write about whatever you like in your blog, because that's what it's there for. But remember that that's what they're there for for everybody, and people shouldn't have to put up with puffed-up arsewipes such as yourself turning up and telling them what is and isn't worth reading. If you want to be taken remotely seriously, for fucks sake lose the hard done by act and jack in the taunting for the sake of attention thing. Otherwise, you may as well just change the title of your blog to "tedious cunt" and have a big picture of yourself looking smug and nothing else, because that's all you'd need to accurately sum things up. Or just a picture of a petulant child dressed up as an adult, throwing a temper tantrum. That'd work just as well.
Oh, and I'm not a coward for posting this anonymously. I just don't want your prattle clogging up my own websites when you predictably turn up for a revenge attack like the big man you seem to like to pass yourself off as. You know - the big man who starts fights on the internet because he's a little bit upset nobody is looking at him. Now seriously, can you not see how that sounds more than just a little bit sad and tragic?
Anonymous: Fuck me, I thought I had nothing better to do. I will admit to not really understanding how this internet-thing works? Can I say what I like, so long as it is nice? Please send me a copy of The Rules. Everything you say is spot-on. Top-notch bile; congrats.
Biffo (!!): What, like in that ep of I'm Alan Partridge?
It is a bit.
However, I do not cry myself into a ball. Oh no. I *WANK* myself into a frenzy as I imagine assimilating every aspect of your being until I finally reach my ultimate goal of actually being you.
Or. I have trouble sleeping. I get bored. I prefer to vent *at* someone if the opportunity is there.
Your comment has been one of the best things you've written in some time.
Five words missing at the end of your comment there, tired dad. "because it was about me".
ranting is good for the soul... and reading it is great for a laugh :)
wow ..tired dad..go to your doctor, get ambien..it rocks!..
The youngest kid is how old ? 4?6?
Take the fucking ambien at 9 you'll sleep for 8 hours and i swear you get up feeling fabulous and sooo rested!
If any kid wants water in the middle of the night ..too fucking bad.
( I would NEVER have asked for ANYTHING in the middle of the night as a kid..my pajamas could have burst into flame and i would have stay'd quiet..my mom would have KILLED me)
Yer know yer can write what yer want when yer want. It's your blog n nobody elses - anonymous or otherwise - Anyroad it's good to stir the shit now n then don't yer think?
Paul: Acutely observed. Sure I'll see you in the Pitcher & Piano sipping a pint of overpriced, unpronounceable euro-spunk with a wedge of lime floating in it served to you by a fucking-stupid-haircut twat.
Sleepy: Cheers love. And welcome.
Cynnie: Not sure if they supply that sort of thing over here. Sounds GREAT though. Loving the pics.
Mr.Dinners: Many thanks. You are, of course, absolutely right. Imagine a world in which we all got on. Wearing hessian, eating lentils and singing coom bi yar. What a fucking state that would be.
What Matters Most is How You Walk Through the Moss
As I looked into the lion's cold black eyes I thought how touching it would be for my blog readers. The lion looked back as if to say "Write about me. Tell the people the emotionally engaging truth about this place. Get Scaryduck to link to it on his blog". I felt a better person as I shot it to bits with an air rifle. Solemnly.
My guide looked on with a bored look in his eye. Although perhaps he wasn't bored, but rather thinking about all the thousands of other stuffed toys that must now lay about the town...
Once cherished toys and keepsakes, now death with an adorable plush face. As I stared into the remnants of the poor, tragic dead toy lion I began to dream. I was transported to a world of happy poor people frolicking in the rubbish fairground. They seemed so happy with their meagre, pathetic rides. It was tragic really. That they would never get to go on a massively expensive holiday to America to ride space mountain and would instead turn red and die from radiation and moss. Still, my blog would offer them comfort
I looked into the babushka’s fat, wrinkly prole face. Her eyes were filled with sadness and crushing poverty, and probably also radiation. 'Can I buy your grandson?' I asked her. Our guide translated for her and then she replied, in the broken, poor quality English characteristic of someone who has had very little education, never mind been nominated for a (children's) BAFTA award, 'No'.
I gave her a shove, partly out of my middle-class white Westerner's anger and frustration, but also out of kindness, because she needed to realise who really kept her stocked in headscarves and beetroots. I went back to the van and pissed on my hands to get the nutrigrains off them, and then waited, taking photos of my bellybutton.
But the woman would not relent. She approached the van and began babbling, close to tears and becoming hysterical. I feared there was something terribly wrong. That the dark secret of the radioactive moss was about to be revealed to me. I clicked onto my special holiday Marillion playlist on my iPod and looked for some crisps in my rucksack.
I made a fist at the sky and slowly released it, symbolising the futility of human strife
We needed to go. Quickly. It seemed I had run out of crisps completely. But where were my companions? We waited for an agonising two minutes that seemed like an eternity of quite literal time.
It was no good. They had turned into moss by now. I wanted to save them but I was quite desperate for the loo by this stage. I imagined them turning red and gestured for my guide to drive on. As he did a small, tiny, round, circular, small tear formed in my eye as I thought of the tragedy.
I adjusted my scrotum and closed my eyes
Jesus!
MESSAGE
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MESSAGE
Bush and the Republicans were not protecting us on 9-11, and we aren't a lot safer now. We may be more afraid due to george bush, but are we safer? Being fearful does not necessarily make one safer. Fear can cause people to hide and cower. What do you think? What is he doing to us, and what is he doing to the world?
Our country is in debt until forever, we don't have jobs, and we live in fear. We have invaded a country and been responsible for thousands of deaths.
We have lost friends and influenced no one. No wonder most of the world thinks we suck. Thanks to what george bush has done to our country during the past three years, we do!
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