Whilst out on my lunch break earlier today I had the good fortune to be standing in the Croydon branch of Virgin Megastore, where they were playing the song 'Welcome To The Jungle' by popular rock and roll band, Guns 'And' Roses.
For a moment the song brought a smile to my face, as I'm sure it would you. The 17 years since its release have failed to blunt its exuberance. However, my enjoyment was curtailed by the fact it reminded me of I request (or prayer, to use your jumped-up marketing speak) I made when I first heard the song at the age of 11. I seem to remember praying, long and hard and on several occasions that "when I grew up could I please be in a world famous rock and roll band, hang out, take drugs and bang the living fuck out of hot chicks". I'm quoting verbatim from the prayer, here.
Today I realised that I am in fact grown up and I couldn't help noticing that rather than being a sex god, I'm a bit paunchy with cheap clothes. Instead of my job involving me rocking out, being violent and getting gob jobs from groupies til they puke, I write marketing copy for an engineering company. As for hanging out and taking drugs? Last night I decided against drinking a third bottle of Corona lest it mean I need to get up in the middle of the night to take a piss (to add insult to injury THIS HAPPENED ANYWAY!).
So - what the fuck's going on here 'God'? What happened to my rock star lifestyle? I've been looking forward to this for 17 years now, and it seems as though you've let me down - plunged me into disappointment. In fact your product 'Life' seems to be little more than a continuing series of disappointments, each more bitter than the last. As time goes on I've demanded less and less of you and each time you've failed in everything except confirming my suspicion that you're nothing more than a fly-by-night cowboy. You may wish to know I've sent a copy of this letter to the BBC television programme 'Watchdog'. I don't expect a reply, as you've never given me anything else.
Thank you for your letter. We are sorry to hear you are dissatisfied with the level of service you have received from God.
However, having investigated your original request, we would like to draw your attention to the following: -
- God helps those who help themselves. We note that you didn't even start playing a musical instrument until the age of 17, and even then it was a bass guitar. Whoever gets famous playing bass? Sting? I'm afraid the decision had already been taken at an executive level not to let any more people like Sting on the planet.
- Alongside that point, we did wonder how comitted you were to the dream of rock stardom, drugs and banging hot chicks. We did note your continuing, repeated and enthusiastic dedication to hot chicks, day after day, on your own in your bedroom. However, perhaps you should have dedicated at least some of this time to practicing the music? In the end, though, we felt the dream expired when you heeded your mother's advice to take A-level French so you had 'something to fall back on'.
- As for the banging hot chicks aspect - did byou ever see the state of yourself? Even as an almighty deity and creator of the universe, there are limits to what we can do. Sorry you had to hear it this way.
sounds like you've gone through to the Calvinist God there, thorn. He's no friend to anybody: "God helps those who help themselves". What kind of God is that? Pathetic. If you ask the real (Catholic) God, he'll tell you the truth, which is that all the dumb whores in your life have held you back from achieving your goals.
[ 06.06.2006, 10:09: Message edited by: Dr. Benway ]
When I was a kid, I had model looks didn't I? I was a little cutie make no mistake. So what happened? What was it that made my eyelids close up like clams and my forehead develop into that of Saw-Boss from Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors? This isn't my complaint of course. I'm just, you know, kicking back with you. You may wonder what it is I want actually. It's about the commercial. You know, the commercial my brother was due to be in when we were just kids. You see, we were use to being the poor kids on the block. It was actually alright that part! You wouldn't believe how many 'new' coats we received from the mums of all the other kids. I just want to thank you for steering their generosity in our direction. I mean, times were hard and nothing was better than being nice and warm in a coat in winter. A coat donated by the other families that would often lead to having the piss ripped out of you by their kids or on one occasion, when I decided to tell someone to fuck off after a session of the usual piss-takery, had the coat ripped off me as 'it wasn't mine anyway' This is the thankful part. Thanks for making all the other Mothers pity my poor father and his two sons, because if it wasn't for that, we wouldn't have got to audition for a part in television. Without that, we wouldn't have been able to pack our bags for a holiday in the sun, as paid for by the production company.
But the apology I'm after is for totally ballsing that up. I'd never had a holiday abroad and was looking forward to it. So much so that I sat in my bedroom in disbelief that our first (and only) holiday was cruelly snatched away from us and I would only hear of the amazing times abroad the neighbours would have for the next 10 or so years. Goddam man, I sat with my suitcase, too sad to unpack it. How could you have done this to me?
Mikee, Earth, Morals -15
Oh my boy. It was a blessing in disguise. I've given you more than that. The holiday you suggested would have burnt your little chalk legs to cinders. Would you trade it all for that one 'normal' holiday in the sun. Remember when your brother and Dale stole that crate of milk from the dairy and the fat man chased them on his milk cart. His face was sweating just from steering it down that hill. Do you remember your Father trying to keep a straight face when a policeman had apprehended the dairy bandits? Remember when you got to play Dragon's Lair at Butlins for the first time? I suppose you've forgotten about the comedy shit-your-pants stories you've racked up from such excursions into the realms of dodgy burgers are funny water? What about when you went on holiday with your mate and his family, when his mum declared you both try to 'find a girlfriend - see who can find get one first' I mean, that alone was worth the price of losing out on such a life changing moment. Not that you managed to impress any other 14 year olds, but just because your mate didn't. Ha ha! Instead of sand and sea, you got excellent experiences. Life shaping, character sculpting experiences. You've been pot-holing, scuba-diving, wind-surfing, deep sea fishing, scrambling, canoeing, abseiling, go-karting and more. You've watched your dad dance to the birdie song at a Disco. Who get's to see that lovely lovely crap? Man, you should be taking note. Your childhood was the stuff that unhappy executives book themselves on to inject some adventure into their life. Man, that fucking advert was for BREAD. You owe ME the apology man.
You reached over with your hand and knocked my Jap over
I have recently checked my diary and found that on June 6th 1983 I asked you if you could arrange it for me and my brothers to go and race some radio controlled cars around for the day and then perhaps when that was finished we could have a bit of a chat and then perhaps someone would present me and my brothers with some radio control cars.
Needless to say you failed to fulfil my request and since then I have become an athiest and regularly use your name in vain.
You've only got yourself to blame
Yours, not really believing in you not...
Re: Radio Control Cars
Having checked my records I have found that in fact your request was sent to Jim'll Fix it, C/O Jimmy Saville at the BBC Television Studios.
I am aware of your feelings towards me but I can assure you I have no control over Jimmy Saville, he should have been up here years ago - it's only the weight of those chains he wears that keep him stuck down there.
Well, as part of the 'forum content on the front page of the site' I've picked this post of Thorns out to be the first out there...
Hope you don't mind Thorn, if you do let me know..
I'm going to publish more content from the forums onto the site with full credit to the authors and links back to the forum, this should turn into an easy to read page of forum high (or low) lights and will hopefully help draw in a few new people.
quote:Originally posted by Darryn.R: I'm going to publish more content from the forums onto the site with full credit to the authors and links back to the forum, this should turn into an easy to read page of forum high (or low) lights and will hopefully help draw in a few new people.
Don't stop there, Darryn! You could arrange a per-post star rating system so we all know exactly where we stand. TMO Stats could include a league table of forumites, as well as performance charts to show the rise and fall of individual standards and crowd groups. Forumites whose posts consistently drop below a predefined threshold would be automatically ba...
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As an extra bonus, I'm liking the philosophies above. Instead of yelling taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag these days, we should yell baaaaaaaaaaanner for any great one liners to adorn the top of TMO.
Oh, I'm fucking up our first good thread for a while. You could just delete my bollcok. Thanks boss!
[ 06.06.2006, 14:02: Message edited by: New Way Of Decay ]
You may remember me from various churchy activities in the mid to late eighties. I liked going to church, because I could wear my Best Clothes (posh red cardy with buttons like cherries and white tights with bows on the heels were particular favourites). I liked the singing (more specifically staring at other people singing- especially the funny ones who closed their eyes and put their hands in the air) and the high roof of the building (Lantern Church, Merley) [oh my god, the vicar's name is Andy Rimmer and he lists his hobbies as Jesus and air guitar- ed]. I was briefly a member of Pathfinders- a youth organisation aimed at keeping young girls interested in Bible stories and away from cider and boys. One time we were in pairs and one was blindfolded and the other had to guide them through a maze made of chairs to illustrate how we need guidance from God through life. God, I've never needed to walk blindly through a maze of chairs, but I hope that you would have been there for me should this situation have arisen.
Anyway, God- Thursday 2 Feb 1989. Does this mean anything to you? It should do- it is the day you ceased to exist. On this day, I went to play with Poppy the hamster before taking my mum a cup of tea in bed. But guess what- Poppy the hamster was lying STIFF and COLD in her cage.DEAD. Oh, I know pets die and go to heaven. But of old age, like Timmy before her. Not when they are only a few months old. Not just before my birthday. You made a mistake, you see. Only a little mistake- one little hamster. Easily rectified! So everyday for about a month I prayed for her to be sent back. Or for time to go backwards and for that day never to happen. Should have been easy for you God, after the Universe, tectonic plates and the platypus. But no.
So God. You steal little girls' hamsters, just for a laugh, do you?
Yours, Vogon Poetess
Dear Ms Poetess,
Thank you for your recent enquiry to Heavenly Services Ltd. Your query is currently being processed by our Customer Services Dept. Should you wish to check the status of your query, please quote the above reference number.
-------------------- What I object to is the colour of some of these wheelie bins and where they are left, in some areas outside all week in the front garden. Posts: 4941
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I hate Valentine's Day. Stupid commercialised crap
To: The King of Kings, Prince of Peace, Master of the Universe (actually, not sure about that last one, didn't you sell the rights to Tom Wolfe?) From: Octavia Date: 3 September 2006 Subject: Warranty
While I am not usually one to complain, I felt obliged to put pen to paper to take issue with you about the service I have received at one of your branch offices.
For a period of my teenage years I was enrolled in what could loosely be called a school, run by your local staff who I believe are known colloquially as 'nuns'. Considerable portions of the day were devoted to sewing aprons, practising cooking, and learning the first five books of your Code of Practice by heart. This routine - we were led to believe - would enable us to lead fulfilled and happy lives, cosily enfolded in the institution known as 'marriage'. We were given to understand that our skills so acquired would act as a form of warranty, and that we would not be required to earn our own living, act independently, or think for ourselves.
Frankly, I feel I have been sold a pup. We were not informed of the small print stating that the guarantee expired in 1954, marriage is no longer a 'job for life' and that we were, in effect, on our own in a hostile world for which 'school' had left us unprepared. Since then life has been a barrage of slings and arrows, and I feel that my precious teenage years were misspent. And not in a fun way. I would like to know what you intend to do about this.
To: Octavia From: PA to The King of Kings, Prince of Peace etc Date: Outside Time Subject: RE: Warranty
Dear Miss Octavia
Thank you for your email drawing to our attention the poor service you feel you have received at our branch office. The small print should certainly have been explained to you at the time, and we are of course happy to compensate you for any genuine loss.
However, we would like to draw to your attention the fact that a) since leaving your teenage years, you have acted as though they would continue indefinitely, shirking responsibility and demonstrating no signs of ever wishing to shoulder the burdens of adulthood. b) you have relished the experience of independence, realising early that it allowed you to spend all your money on yourself and never have the argument about who left the toilet seat up c) you would be supremely unfitted for a 'job for life', given that your boredom threshold is that of a Ritalin-dependent four-year-old.
In consequence, therefore, we are obliged to point out that you have in fact gained substantially from the expiration of the warranty, and no restitution will be forthcoming.
I was an unhappy child as you well know - I was plagued with being desperatley thin for a growing lad, and whilst my beloved parents although poor made sure we were properly fed, I was still plagued with this affliction. The taunts of my friends and school friends and having such nicknames as "Stick man" and "Bobby Sands" did everything it could to diminish my confidence to almost zero, a curse I can only put down to punishment for my early discovery of masterbation.
After praying every night for Susanne Laarsen to go out with me on her return trip to England as part of our schools student exchange, and getting nothing but a quick snog which I have to say was pretty magic - I did feel pretty let down by all that hard work for a few seconds that I cannot actually remember.
I did from that day on request that I grow into a normal person who was not underweight and who women would not beat in arm wrestling, and although I am able to say this, having all my weight apportioned to my gut is not quite the appeasement I sought. I know that you have made beer, and it is good, and it has got me laid once or twice as well as giving me a weight more befitting someone of my age and height, and for that I am grateful, but the morning paunch is a little dissapointing - would it not have been too much to ask for a bit of proper apportionment so that I could be a bit proud? I know after all in the instruction manuals this is against user guidelines and company policy, but maybe at your next AGM could this issue be reconsidered?
Your sincerely Waynster
Thanks for your letter dated 03/09/06. However as stated by your mother 21/07/78 you'll go straight for to hell for abusing the peripheral of which you found so much enjoyment, and continue to do so.
Thus, as you have chosen to shift policies for our main competitor, may I suggest cashing in your life/soul policy with their management for a flatter stomach. We do not however endorse this method, as it will lead to an eternal damnation and possibly stretch marks. You could however consider going on a diet you fat fuck.
What have I done to annoy you so much? Just give me a reason, that's all I ask. I don't go around mugging old ladies and ripping off children. I have never killed anybody, indeed to my knowledge I've never physically hurt anybody during my relatively short time on earth. So why the fucking shit, eh? Okay, arguably playing somebody at snooker for money* is sinful, but still, corrupt scum such as solicitors commit sins on an hourly basis yet still seem to lead happy, stress-free lives - with good fortune in abundance.
The frame was going relatively well, with me accumulating a useful 50 point lead and only a few reds remaining. Easy street. Just close out the game patiently. Then YOU thought it justified to thrust your holy cock into my arse. I mean, the guy played a dreadful shot, missing the pot on the red by a good few inches, yet somehow it slimed its way into the middle pocket! Okay - that was a moment of fortune. An isolated event. BUT NOT IF SIMILAR EVENTS OCCUR A FURTHER TWO TIMES, YOU CUM-GUZZLING SLUT. To his credit, the guy played a couple of nice shots after the fluke, leaving him with an outside chance of pinching the frame with a yellow-to-black clearance.
Enter: fluke number two. A woeful attempt at potting the yellow results in me being snookered - full ball - behind the green. WHAT?? I mean, give me a fucking break. Yes, obviously I fail to prise myself from the dark stuff and miss the yellow. Four points to cuntface and an easy pot to take the yellow, followed by the green and brown - just to rub it in. The pressure's beginning to mount now as the point difference is now only 10, with the blue, pink and black remaining on the table.
Enter: fluke number three. After a brief bout of safety play, my opponent pulls off an outstanding pot on the blue, leaving him perfectly on the pink. So, only the pink and black required to take the frame and the money. He slides in the pink, but finishes tight on the cushion for the black. "He, he" I think. "Finally the shit-stick has been reversed." He misses the black. It sits a mere two feet from the pocket. Lovely. Just get down, nice and calm, pot the fucking ball. The cueball leaves the cuetip and heads perfectly in the direction of the black. THEN I GET A FUCKING KICK! The kick makes a dull thud upon striking the black, sending it off-course by mere millimetres, leaving it sat over the pocket with its legs spread. Game. Over. Shake the guy's hand, whilst wincing and grinding my teeth together so hard I can feel my jaw bone pulsing ominously against my cheeks.
So, God. I demand either an apology for said debacle, or a reason for why you elected me to suffer such devastingly bad luck.
Whilst I can only sympathise with your financial loss, you must surely have realised by now that in one-frame-snooker, anything can happen. Also, your lead was a mere 50 points. Perhaps you should work on your breakbuilding. This would lead to more convincing victories in future, you whinging, excuse-making twat.