Possibly The Last Post

It's quite obvious that the blog is dying. From the highs we hit in May to August where our reader number inflated all the way up to the giddy heights of five to now, when I'm convinced only one of them is still alive. So before we go any further, let's thank dirtycowgirl for still being around, somewhat, but that being said, I wouldn’t be surprised if she got the hell out of this sinking ship now. It would be the sensible thing to do.

The year anniversary of the return to the blog has now past and the post planned for the occasion never turned into reality. Now there are three options for us. The first is to just quit and go away and pretend this sad excuse for a blog never existed. Maybe that would be best. The second is to leave the confines of the services of the Google gods and move away to emo-fuckhole Tumblr or the confusing as hell Wordpress. More and more people like those things. You don't need Google IDs to comment. Sounds good. The third is to continue to struggle with our lonely blog as we have for so long. We could start posting more. But without any comments and shit, what's in it for us? Why should we be motivated to continue?

The demise of this blog is not only due to the abandonment of 4 of our readers. I suppose we have to take blame as well. We’re lazy bastards. We’ve always been lazy bastards but we used to still spew out more garbage for our few minions. What’s happened to us, Bad Ideas?

I suppose the initial excitement of finding out our blog is being read somewhere around the world has died down. The fluttery happiness of finding a new follower has vanished and has been replaced with cold indifference. We both have studies to pretend to do. A site named 9gag has stolen both our souls and now we spend more time than a sensible person should not spend on anything other than scrubbing his privates after seeing a lady of the night in Bangkok, on this site. I write more than I should as I churn out shitty writing for a shitty paper, which by the way was something Bad Ideas convinced me to do. He…watches anime. Both of us are sad fucks and pathetic excuses for, well not for human beings, pathetic excuses for people our age.

We’re socially awkward losers. There’s no denying it. But that’s probably why we have a blog. The internet is the safe haven of losers like us. But now I return to the original question posed by this incessantly long post, what do we do about the blog? I don’t expect any comments and replies. The lack will be answer enough. But somehow, deep down, I’m hoping somebody will tell us to stay. But whether that will happen remains to be seen. And now, goodbye, perhaps for the last time.

That Guy

Oh and here’s a picture of Good Guy Greg. A meme. Something I found on 9gag.

Reginald

Hmm, this is to distract you while That Guy works on the real post. It's something I wrote in my English class. Got a 24 out of 25. Most others in the class are stupid. So, here it is:

Reginald is an expensive name. It cannot simply be bestowed upon anyone. To be even considered eligible for the label of 'Reginald' one has to be born into wealth measured in British Pounds; no other currency will do. After being given the title of 'Reginald' one has a certain duty to society. They need to be able to ride a horse with a certain level of elegance. Later in life, 'Reginald' will need to develop myopia or any similar optical disability which warrants the use of a monocle. 'Reginald' must, at all times, carry a golden pocket-watch upon their person and speak with a thick British accent. Reginald's attire ranges from a suit with a top hat to a suit without a top hat. When it comes to facial hair, some liberty is allowed, though mutton chops accompanied by a moustache are strongly recommended.

What other traits does a Reginald have? Do you know a Reginald who does not conform to the unwritten laws which govern him? If you were offended by this let me tell you you were not the first. This shark was offended too.

Contemplating the problems of a third world hellhole Part 2

Let's make this short; I have Game of Thrones to get back to. And then eventually, studying to do.

There are several reasons as to why traveling across road in Bangladesh will get you killed more often than having an elephant drop a piano on you, the most prominent being that elephants do not usually drop pianos on people. And then there are the more obvious reasons such as ill maintenance, corruption (the third world favourite), religion, bad weather, drugs, rampaging mon, Burmese streakers (Myanmar-ese? Mayonaise?), religion, capitalism, Pizza Hut, women driving, religion and our favourite, stupidity.

Highly improbable scenario

Highly fucking ridiculous scenario

Highly humorous but still fucking near impossible scenario

Bangladesh is a country full of shitty roads. Where a natural absence of roads would provide a better route, roads are built halfway and then abandoned due to a mysterious lack of funds while a not-so-slick politician moonwalks away with a significantly fatter wallet or purse.

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 Bangladesh. But however if you still drive a car in Bangladesh (against what nature intended) you have to be patient. If you aren’t, you will have to partake in a swearing match with a nearby rickshaw puller which you are almost guaranteed to lose. But the few drivers we have can be divided into two categories; raving loonies and incredibly skilled people who probably should earn more but don't thus sliding further into poverty.

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.

A lot of these traffic problems can be attributed to over-centralisation of the capital, Dhaka (read: the shithole where That Guy lives). Dhaka is pretty much the only city in Bangladesh according to the rule that a city is a town which has more than 3 decent ice cream places. The rest of the country is grassland, rivers, flooded plains, villages, homeless people and other people who have nothing better to do than stand on the side of the road. Everything is concentrated in Dhaka. Factories, industry, commerce, education, sluts without AIDS, people that run you in with a knife and then forget to take your money, proper healthcare. All that shit is in the capital and you have to travel the already perilous roads to use them.

Hell, even the Navy headquarters are in Dhaka despite there not being a water body that can be sailed by Navy battleships anywhere near Dhaka. We also have the Army headquarters smack in the middle of the city. Why? Because they can bully the government into letting them take a fucking huge piece of land in the city, forcing traffic to move around it causing yet more traffic jams. Motherfuckers. Why would we need the Army in Dhaka anyway? If someone's attacking it'll be near the border, jackasses. That reminds me, the Border Guards also have a giant piece of land in the city. Right near my house. Because land is in abundance in our country.

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 Bangladesh, I’ll write about where I live, God’s magical fictional country Pakiland. Okay, I’m getting this content from straight from the Paki’s mouth. Women cannot fornicate in this country, otherwise its 100 lashes for them, which is pretty much as the same as a death sentence (or half-death sentence), just more fucking painful. Neither can men (fornicate, that is) but hey, with all the chauvinistic bastards in parliament they’ll find a way to free them. Fornicate sounds like something you would do to goats … yeah, I’ll use a different word next time.

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, Iran and Afghanistan. We tackled Saudi previously and Afghanistan would be too easy right? But we will probably get to it, eventually, maybe.

Now, if you excuse me (That Guy), I have to go sit in crippling traffic for a few hours in search of ice cream.

kindergarten + boobs + rat's ass = Poop post

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).

When I have nothing to do, which is almost always, I either sleep or watch anime. I’m not sure how one goes about saying it. Watch manga? Watch anime? Watch cartoons? Yeah, I do that. On a slightly unrelated note, does anyone know when the new Futurama season is coming out?

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.

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]