Monday, 5 December 2011
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
There are several reasons as to why traveling across road in
Highly improbable scenario
With roads as shitty as ours and with population as dense (in both senses; stupid and high in number) as ours … you really don’t get anywhere. We can’t handle the traffic problems like the population by piling cars on top of each other because let’s face it, that would just look weird right? So with no chance of us driving, we don’t really get any drivers in
Most ‘drivers’ here do not have driving licenses. About 80% of those people drive 20 ton cargo trucks carrying anything from cows to cadavers. Match that with broken down roads and mysteriously high blood alcohol levels and well, you get the picture. We do have people to fix these problems. We are told that we have a Road Minister to deal with shit. We also have a Communications Minister who builds bridges while stuffing his pockets with cash stolen from the budget while claiming Wikileaks lies about him and that he is a "proven honest man". Both of the officials mentioned are dumber than a holiday in the Horn of Africa.
Hell, even the Navy headquarters are in
Now Bad Ideas has to add something to the post other than a few extra words here and there. I’m the one who makes the pictures you ass! Anyways, since I’m not so knowledgeable about
You can have up to 4 wives here. “It’s the law,” he says. So because of this influenced by their fairy-tale-like law people often abduct women with marriage proposal-advertisements. This is one of the only countries where every ‘Why aren’t you in the kitchen?’ joke comes true, at least once every day. Worse on the list would be Saudi,
Now, if you excuse me (That Guy), I have to go sit in crippling traffic for a few hours in search of ice cream.
Saturday, 1 October 2011
Hmm, having no life but still not being, in the conventional sense, dead means I have nothing to do. Yeah, that’s exactly what it means. What is the purpose of a sentence defining itself? Well, apart from educating the appallingly stupid, its probably as useless as a sign which reads ‘Do not read’ or a Catholic priest in a kindergarten class (this was a completely random conjuration, honest, I’m sure he has his reasons for being there).
I, That Guy, am currently hooked on Game of Thrones. And I swear it has nothing to do with the boobs that appear every two minutes. It's got Sean Bean. Sean Bean has made a career out of fucking up in every role he plays. He's also a grade-A badass. The man was apparently stabbed in the arm in a bar fight and refused to go with the paramedics until he finished his beer. Badass. He's almost like Spongebob. Also, the bastards at work haven't paid me for August yet (why the fuck are you still working for them then?). Assholes. And they say I'm a douche. Fuck you.
Sooner or later, this blog will forego all humour, and concentrate on serious analysis of serious topics in a serious manner accompanied by (if any) serious pictures. The Librarian series will soon be at a close with a conclusion stating that the probability of a semi-potent celestial Librarian’s existence is not too high (GLITS forgive me), Places that Suck will probable turn to highlighting actual problems in the concerned countries and well, do we have any more series posts? If Crow Poop can be considered one then he will either get a real job or organize unfruitful protests against corrupted overlords and then get crushed. Why are we doing this and potentially ruining the little readership we have? Because, we need this on our already shitty college applications. And dissident blogger gets you good scholarship. Which we need as our grades will hardly merit a rat's ass.
We're bored and soon That Guy will have exams, again. Haha jackass, I laugh at him. This really isn't leading anywhere. It's kinda random. Kinda shitty. This is so unlike us.
Saturday, 17 September 2011
The One Month minus Four Days late post, maybe you would have more respect for me if I didn't put it up
The apparition climbed onto his back and whispered ‘GAME OVER’. He thought he heard a short 16-bit tune accompanying those words. The effect of the overdose was more severe than he was willing to settle for. All his senses were blocked by the mystery mix injected into his veins. He had been roughed up before, this time was a bit worse, he was left for dead in the local dumpster with the discretion an armed goon affords. The phantasm displayed a random range of colors before his unfocused eyes. The unwelcome hues slowly assembled into a long abandoned memory.
A sickly child teetered out of the sandbox following her friend. In the grey backdrop a newly constructed building stood crooked. In the distance, ants that looked like children made their way to the building. “Nick! Wait for me!” The boy called Nick turned to reply. “Hurry up; you’ll make us late for lunch!”
“You know I get tired easily.” Nick did not reply, instead he waited for her and then returned indoors with her at her pace. At the door Father Connelly greeted them. “Children, come along inside, he food will get cold.” His warm smile made their lives that little bit more bearable. And so they ate, in a room with a long table and many other children like them. The food was unappealing, spinach with spaghetti. “Ugh, I don’t want to eat this, hey, Angela, I’m gonna put this food under the table look that no one’s watching.”
“Nick! No! You always do something like this and get into trouble.”
“Don’t worry.” He assured Angela and, with what might be considered finesse to an 8-year old, emptied his plate to a neutral area on the floor. Once the children were done with lunch they were herded to the playroom indoors by towering nuns clad in black.
A rugged man scoured the dark, narrow alleyway, pushing a broken trolley loaded with recyclable garbage and cheap liquor. He stopped by each rusty silver bucket for search of treasure or less. Nearing a dead end, he paused to have another swig of unlabeled thirst-quenching poison. A half-hearted thump echoed from the large container beside him. A clearly drugged man emerged only to crash to the ground face first. After some time the failed corpse half-crawled, half-stumbled its way towards the street muttering something about ‘Angela’. Downing another mouthful the scavenger disdainfully muttered, “Bums.”
Not too far off, wisps of sewer steam collected to form a vague figure with a familiar aura. The apparition wrapped itself around a dying man’s neck and spoke, “Just watch. Don’t do anything.” And as though it had just said the funniest thing, the apparition laughed. “Ha-ha-ha.”
When he came to, the cruel mocking laughter hadn’t stopped. “Ha-ha-ha.” It dawned on him that the source of his annoyance was the co-incidental rhythm of the steam making its way around in the rusty pipes. He was only alive now because the greedy underling had injected him with the impure product which they sold rather than the wholesome heroin they kept for themselves. Just how much of this was a hallucination? “Angela,” he sighed and the pipes once again reverberated, “Ha-ha-ha.”
[Okay, I have no excuse so if you're pissed swear at me on our lonely Fagbook page]
Thursday, 25 August 2011
Contrary to what you may think after reading thus far, the plague isn’t what’s killing us. No. The plague has passed. It claimed a few billion, yes. But no, what’s killing us, is us. When the plague swept through, the leaders of the planet died. Countries dissolved. Nobody could operate on a scale larger than a city. In the end, it was just a bunch of survivors scrambling together to stay alive. And in one year, what has become of globalisation? Huh? Nobody much cares for economic recession anymore.
This town was taken over. They came. They had firearms that we were no match for. They came, and they conquered. They put the elderly to labour, they raped our women. Another reason I’m happy I killed her when I did. Put her out of her misery. She wouldn’t have liked what the world has become. Haha. I’m sorry. It was jus- just a funny way to die. You see, she came charging at me and I- you know what, forget it. It doesn’t matter. She’s dead. She’s rotting somewhere, her flesh now food for rats.
I like rats. Cute little creatures. And they squeak just before they die, if you squeeze them hard enough. And now, in this destroyed wasteland community, rats are fine dining. Skewer one and roast it on a fire. Delicious.
The battle for this town, if you can call it that, lasted all of one hour. Probably would’ve been over quicker if our “brave” defenders didn’t hide and cower like little children. They, the conquerors, didn’t have to do much. They just stood there, their guns at the ready. And almost as if reading their minds, our men with all their superior intellect charged at them, screaming something about freedom or liberty or some similar fictional concept they still thought they had. That is before they were shot to ribbons. Morons. Haha. No, I apologize. Death is not something to joke about. It’s merely the punch-line to the greatest joke of all.
You would think that with civilization nearly dissolved, religion would be irrelevant. You’d think people would stop bothering to go to listen to an old man preach random bullshit every Sunday, that they would stop bothering to bend over 5 times a day. You’d think they’d stop believing that an imaginary man in the sky will grant them favour. Idiots. People still pray to Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha and whoever else they think will come down from the heavens with 72 virgins for them. I feel sorry for them. But then I stop. It’s their own choice if they wish to leave their fates up to blind faith in an imaginary deity. Jackasses.
The sun used to represent hope. Now, it’s just a hot ball of gas, beating down on us. The rulers, the colonial masters, they’re comfortably off. They have working air conditioners, they have proper food and they have women to do whatever their sick imaginations concoct. Outside their palaces are the regular people. They live in stifling conditions, those who were once prosperous now enveloped in poverty. Haha. Serves them right. Made their money of bribes and murder, how does it feel now? Living on the streets; a cardboard box all the shelter from acid rain and ultraviolet rays of the sun. Haha. Did I mention they were idiots?
The streets are scattered with corpses and crying infants. Nobody cares for these children. Neither should they. Little snot-nosed mouth-breathers, never liked the beastly little creatures myself. I stand on the roofs of one of the last tall buildings that still stands. The asylum. It’s supposed to keep me locked up and forgotten, but it doesn’t take much to open the doors. Just a small pin would do the trick.
The living, now resembling the walking dead, will look up. They will hail my silhouette, standing between them and the sun, as their saviour. They will cry out for me to bring them salvation. And I will laugh. And I will defecate on them. And I will shatter whatever sliver of hope they still hold on to. And while they lie on the streets, shit oozing down their faces, tears will escape their eyes. And I will laugh. Haha.
The world is hopeless. Society has fallen. Everybody’s lost their minds. They’re quiet, but their minds run riot. Plain fucking loony. They try to pretend they’re alright, but I know better. I know the mental anguish. But I’m strong. I’ve overcome the trauma. I’m the only sane one left. But what is it to be sane in a world that is insane? Has the idea of sanity now been altered as the norm is now to be crazy? Or is it something, one of the only things, that has remained the same after the world ended? Whatever’s happened, I know one thing. I feel fine.
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
With a population that's bursting at the seams and the majority of the urban inhabitants deeming education a necessity, there are a massive number of educational institutions in Dhaka. Most of them rubbish. What am I saying? All of them are guttershit. And I wonder why this country is as dumb as Ash Ketchum from Pokemon.
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Friday, 10 June 2011
- Hands and feet are amputated for robbery or theft
- Sexual deviancy is rewarded by whipping in public
- Public beheadings for drug traffickers, murderers, rapists, armed robbers and Jewish people.
Monday, 23 May 2011
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
- 13 votes and a clear win for "Places That Suck"
- 2 votes and humiliating loss for our most frequent one "Encyclopedia Librarica"
- 7 votes for the most popular post in the blog's history "Contemplating The Problems of A Third World Hellhole"
- 6 votes for "Didn't I tell you to leave?". Too bad. We're not leaving. But you're more than welcome to get the hell off my property.
If there’s one thing that Rise Against is good at, it’s being perpetually vehemently pissed off. You’d think with a growing fanbase and selling tens of thousands of albums they would have some happiness in their lives, but no. They always find something to complain about. That’s also why this writer can relate to them.
In their new album, the ominously named “Endgame”, vocalist Tim McIlrath describes himself as an “orphan of the American dream”. Melodramatic much?
There are two types of Punk music out there nowadays. The first which rebels against the system and the second which is basically regular pop songs sung at twice the speed. Rise Against’s new album is a bit of both. From the minute the loud guitar riffs of “Architects” welcome you to the album; it sort of sparks a rebellious flame inside.
Rise Against’s sound has evolved in this album. To old fans this will sound a bit alien. It’s a much lighter sound than the grittiness that their previous albums such as “The Sufferer and The Witness” accustomed us to. There are some clear grunge influences (such as in the song “Midnight Hands”). It takes a little getting used to.
Rise Against’s niche is singing songs that have messages. They do their best to highlight the problems that plague the world. From questioning why a soldier had to die in “Survivor’s Guilt” to inspiring an uprising on “A Gentlemen’s Coup” to showing us the lower class angst on “Disparity by Design”, the combination of McIlrath’s intensity and the blaring guitar riff driven music send a thoughtful shot of adrenaline into your system.
The stand out point for me though, is the brilliant “Make It Stop (September’s Children)”; a song taking aim at bullying and a plea to stop before more children end their lives through frustration and violence. “And too much blood has flowed from the wrists; of the children shamed for those they chose to kiss”
There are flaws in the album. For example : when the customary half-way slow-down in the song “Architects” arrives, it sounds like McIlrath is trying to win back his girlfriend rather then send a true message. Since punk is sung at twice the speed of other songs, some of the songs such as “Wait for Me” overstay their welcome.
“Endgame” is a rarity. It is an intelligent album. Something the music industry needs more of. It has a solid message for all willing to listen. It’s a very good album. The only thing missing though, is that little magic spark. That little magic spark which turns a good album into a great album, an album that will stand the test of time. But it’s still a very good album.
Final rating: 8/10
We apologize for the incredibly lame post. Exams still aren't over. Once we're back we'll get back to making what people voted for happen. New writers and Places That Suck are a few things to look forward to next month.
That Guy and minimum unwanted interference from Bad Ideas
Oh, and don't forget to vote on the next poll or inbred American redneck will flame your ass.
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Saturday, 16 April 2011
- 11 votes for "Add them both". But sadly, we don't care about your opinion in the slightest.
- 5 votes for "I don't care". Then don't freakin' vote, jackass.
- 4 votes for "Don't add more writers". Why are you so afraid of change? You voted against Obama didn't you?
- 2 votes for "Add just 1". I'll add as many as I like.
- 1 vote for "They should replace you two" . I appreciate the honesty.
Monday, 4 April 2011
Monday, 28 March 2011
Acronyms such as LOL and ROFL and LMAO and ROFLJACKOFFTOFALLOUTBOY have been menacing the internet's intellectuals since the beginning of social networking (Thank you, Mark Fuckerburg, you fucking gremlin prick) and the tween revolution. These intelligence lowering noises are like sparkly vampires who make you suck their cock instead of them sucking your blood, which is scarier unless you're gay in which case they force you to have sex with the opposite sex. The only sense the last sentence needs to make is that these abbreviations are bad. Keeping in mind the general public (YOU) are defined by their low intelligence, lets explain in simpler terms shall we. Lawlz dawg, diz shizz iz badz, yo. If youz iz not agreez, youz a poopie. Better?
Nobody laughs at a knock knock joke unless they are mentally retarded or breathing pure Nitrogen Dioxide. So when I say “Knock knock" and you say "ROFLPISSYMYPANTS", you are obviously lying. A simple, expressionless "haha" would have sufficed. But alas, people have tiny brains and copy other tiny brained people leading to a vicious cycle of stupidity and falling for ill-constructed internet scams.
This post was originally meant to contain more meaningless rants but procrastination, being the crafty bastard it is, wouldn't allow us to. But anyways, tell us what you think of this (click on the box left of awesomeness, don't be a bitch) and comment.