Holy shit. When did we become so hollow? When did we lose our dreams? When did we stop believing that life was made for fun and that the point was to have as much of it as possible?



St. Bastard

Open Bar + Dumb Kids = Fireworks

Stupid people annoy me more than I can put into simple words. Drunk people are obnoxious to me in a way that defies explanation. When stupid people get drunk, the chaotic mixture is one that pisses me off faster than the time Jimmy Gorin punched me in the nuts and stole my baseball cards. The magnitude of retardation possessed by the idiot children at my company astounds me. Most of all, the lack of common sense is staggering -- how the fuck have they made it this far in life without the sense God gave a retarded June bug?!

The company party last night was, in my opinion, a raging disaster. The place was stupidly over-crowded. Just so you know, the official office party for the company that put out a certain new music-based video game couldn't get controllers that worked either. Take some comfort in the small fact that our hardware is shit, too. That, combined with shitty parking and immature children abusing the open bar policy as if they'd just discovered alcohol resulted in at least one fight, at least one arrest, and as many different kinds of hangovers as there are people.

We had to have a debate this morning about kicking out one of our roommates. I voted in favor of throwing his stupid ass out into the street, taking his house key and throwing his clothes out the window after him. It was also raining this morning. Far from deterring my decision, this gave me an extra sense of glee. There was vomit and ... something else in the tub this morning. All I wanted was to get up and take a shower and go to work -- but that didn't happen. I had to come in extra early and shower at work.

In other, unrelated news, a friend basically wrote me off last night. After getting home last night I checked my email before crashing out, and there was a little missive from a friend telling me how disappointed she was in me that we couldn't meet up the other night. So disappointed, in fact, that she told me that I was basically wasting her time and that we won't be hanging out anymore. Pity. I really liked spending time with her. Guess she wasn't much of a friend if she's going to write me off the first time we can't meet up. Too bad. Regina Spektor will never sound quite the same.

So, the lesson here kiddies is that you're damned if you do, and damned if you don't -- so do as much as you can and have fun and live your lives as if it really matters. Just don't be stupid. 'Cause guess what? The last time you saw her might really be the last time you ever saw her.


And that's the Gospel... according to St. Bastard


P.S. As a post-script to this story, one of the arrested individuals actually showed up for work today. I was stunned. He has his arm in a cast. I can't believe he could look anyone in the eye. How embarrassing for us as a company and for him as an individual. What is wrong with the world?

St. Bastard™ Finds A Mail-Order Bride!


What.
The.
Fuck?

That's what I thought as Elliot sent me a link tonight at work. Elliot always finds the weirdest, most deviant shit on the internet, it's like he has his internet radar set to "Extra Perverted." So, as I clicked on the link, I was brought to the following page:



Check it out for yourself.

Like you, I was puzzled -- to say the least. After I finished laughing, I tried to think who would actually use this site? Was this some sort of polygamist's wet dream? Did this site cater to Russian brides in particular? I've heard of mail-order brides, but this is like paging through the Sears catalog and ordering up a fresh new child-bride. "Act now and we'll throw in a fresh set of sheets free!"

Ridiculous. The internet has finally reached critical mass.

From the MarryOurDaughter homepage:
"MarryOurDaughter.net is an introduction service assisting those following the Biblical tradition of arranging marriages for their daughters.
Those who wish to list their Daughters with our site should click on SIGN UP OUR DAUGHTER on our main page for a form to fill out.
Those who wish to propose to a specific Daughter should click on the PROPOSE button on the Daughter's INFO CARD."

No shit. This is a real website. People can sell their daughters (ages 13-17) to an American man (they're very specific about not exporting) for anywhere from a bargain basement $4,000 to the high-end of $90,000+, depending on how big your budget is (and how pure you want your bride-to-be to be). I was just as baffled as you. Until reading the "Biblical tradition" part. Then it started to make sense--in a totally fucked up nonsensical way.

Here's what I'm wondering, though--who the fuck signs up their 14-year old daughter to get married through a website?! Are you fucking kidding me?

Now, I don't have an extra $30,000 to buy a wife on the internet. Even if I did, buying a 14-year old girl seems... oh, what's the word... "shady"? No -- that's not it. "Like slavery"?... no... Oh, I know -- how about "fucking creepy."

So, I shopped around a bit on the website and found that there's a certain code the families use when writing the synopsis for their daughter. Here's a few samples [with my translations as I read between the lines of their profiles].

Kristin J., age 16.
Actual text: "Kristin has a wild streak. She likes parties and has spent more time with boys then we'd have liked her to. We had a family talk and decided that it was time she settled down with a man who could meet her needs and help her fulfill her dreams of being an actor or singer. She's a bit fiery but worth it."
St. Bastard's Translation: "Kristin is a total slut. She's fucked her way through half her high school and now she's knocked up. We have no idea who the father could be so we want to marry her off to a movie producer with a high sex drive before she starts showing."
Bride Price: $49,995.

Cheyenne B., age 16.
Actual Text: "We're a Christian family and Cheyenne has had trouble with unchristian desires although at heart we know she's a good Christian girl. She needs a husband with STRONG Christian values who will provide her a STRONG Christian home and help her to live a godly life."
St. Bastard's Translation: "Cheyenne is a little pagan bitch that we can no longer force into going to church. We caught her masturbating and worshipping trees in the back yard and we want to marry her to a zealot (preferrably KKK-friendly) that will beat her into submission."
Bride Price: $5,995.

Anna R., age 17 1/2.
Actual Text: "Anna R. has been living with foster families since she was 5 and is a bit rough around the edges but is basically a good girl. When she turns 18 she will have to move out and is looking for a kind and caring man to look after her needs while she looks after his."
St. Bastard's Translation: "Anna's biological clock is going off like Big Ben and needs to find someone to shack up with before she has to start turning tricks on street corners for rent. She's been had by every foster boy in the state, but she's still got major daddy issues. Free blowjobs three times a week and a fuck on Friday if you'll pay her rent."
Bride Price: $3,995. [A bargain!]

As I thought about this for a while, I had an epiphany. Wasn't there something in the Bible about buying wives? They say it's a "Biblical tradition" -- yes, that's the whole gist here -- so I did some research and found this gem:

I Samuel 18:25-27 [English Standard Version]
Then Saul said, "Thus shall you say to David, 'The king desires no bride-price except a hundred foreskins of the Philistines, that he may be avenged of the king's enemies.'"
Now Saul thought to make David fall by the hand of the Philistines. And when his servants told David these words, it pleased David well to be the king's son-in-law. Before the time had expired, David arose and went, along with his men, and killed two hundred of the Philistines.
And David brought their foreskins, which were given in full number to the king, that he might become the king's son-in-law. And Saul gave him his daughter Michal for a wife.

I had found my loophole.

Now here's what I'm wondering -- What does $49,995 worth of foreskins look like? So I did some more research. The average cost of a circumcision in the great state of California is $143.00. So this means I'd have to collect about 350 foreskins to buy Kristin J. (remember, the fiery slut?) for their bride price. They're good Christians, right? They'll take a Biblical trade like that, won't they? 350 foreskins is almost twice as many as Saul got -- it ought to be good enough for them.

A few questions on etiquette:
When presenting your in-laws to be with 350 foreskins, does one gift wrap them?
Will a simple cardboard box suffice or do they need to be refrigerated?
If I decide to wrap them, how fancy does the wrapping paper need to be?
Should I separate them out or just toss them all in the same box?
Should I present them on a huge plaque or something suitable for display?

See? These are the kinds of thoughts that kept me out of the really good schools.


And that's the Gospel... according to St. Bastard.

An Open Letter to Born-Again Christians: Please Pull the Jesus Stick Out of Your Ass.

Can someone please explain to me why it is that born-again Christians feel they have carte blanche to do whatever the hell they want? I can't tell you how many times I get cut off in traffic by some self-righteous douche-bag with a fish magnet on the back of her SUV. So, you've rededicated your life to Christ and he says it's okay to be oblivious behind the wheel? Does Jesus pay your insurance bill, too? What part of acting boorish and self-centered is in line with the teachings of ANY god, let alone Christianity's?

I get that you're perfect and without sin now, but how does that excuse obnoxious behavior? Aren't you supposed to be working towards world peace or something? What happens after you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior? You get to just be an asshole to all the heathens? That just seems fucked up and selfish to me.

I understand the feeling of superiority they must have. Really, I do. They've been saved. They "win" the game of Life. They found the answer to the Golden Riddle of Religion. Good for them. I'm sure that when they die, they'll get the magic keycard to the Executive Restroom in the sky. They'll be hanging out in heaven while everyone else will be suffering in lakes of fire and chains of ice for ever and ever. Because that's how their God of infinite love works.

If that's what they need to get through the day, so be it. I don't presume to judge how another human being gets through this life. It just doesn't work for me. I figure that if I let them go on about their merry way, in turn, they'll leave me the fuck alone about it. But what the fuck is the deal with lording it over everyone else? Is that really what Christ would do? Really? You're saying that Jesus would act like an asshole and generally be a prick to everyone who doesn't "get it"? If that's the case, you can stick Jesus right up your ass.

The problem with living with 4 other guys is exactly that -- I live with 4 other GUYS. We need a fuckin' skirt in the house or nothing ever gets done. Thank god they all date or else the place would never be clean. I swear, today was the third time that I sat down and there was no toilet paper. How does that fucking happen?! When I use the last sheet, I get a new roll. If you use the last sheet, you get a new roll. Those are just the rules. Every guy knows those rules. And no one in the house will admit to them being the one who did it, so now I have to be angry at everybody equally.



Fucking savages. Grown-ass men who can't put a new roll of toilet paper on the roll. To all my exes, I am so very sorry if I ever did this. I suppose this is my karma now.


St. Bastard

Who is your "us"? Everyone has an "us" and a "them." Those you associate with. Those you don't. People who are like you. People who aren't.

As humans, we label ourselves and we label others. You label yourself. You label others. We all do it. We can't help it. It starts as a convenience... a short hand so we know who we're talking about it. Us. Them. Are you a geek? A goth? A punk? A metal-head? A rapper? A jock? A preppy? A freak? A Christian? A Muslim? A Jew? An Arab? An American?

There's a million ways to separate "us" from "them." We segregate ourselves by the choices we make, the places we live, the music we listen to, the God(s) we believe in (or don't), and even the things we can't choose, like our gender or the color of our skin. We've all been many things... We take on many labels and shed them as we grow and change.

We label ourselves and we label others so we know who "we" are and we know who "they" are. We have a million different labels for who "we" are and who "they" are. We label ourselves and our nation and our family and our neighborhood and our countries and we divide, divide, divide.

We are not "that," but this. We are not "this," but that. We are not "them," but us.

How do all those labels really help us, though? The labels we apply to ourselves and others, they identify us, surely, but do they not also limit? There comes a point when we have to ask, as a species, do they confine us more than they free us? Do they segregate more than unite? They identify, but they can't help but put a barrier between people. A million little walls between us and them.

The labels let us know who to go to war with, sure. The labels let us know who has less and who has more. But a million labels haven't helped us progress toward being a more evolved, star-faring race -- which is our potential as human beings and our right as sentient creatures. The labels just make it easier to know who to hate.

The labels only make it easier to know who is different. And from grade school when the teachers asked us "Which one is different and doesn't belong," we all learned that different is somehow bad.

I just wonder if there isn't a better way.

Brigadier General Sir Michael Gambolputty Cedric Hollingford Dartboard Thurman Bicycle Cheese XVII [Official Biography]

Michael Gambolputty Cedric Hollingford Dartboard Thurman Cerise Curtains Glasford Bicycle Cheese was born in Wolverton-Brilliantine-on-Sea, Yorkshire, England on 30 November 1894*, the third son of Major General Charles Hibiscus Hedge Robertson Gurney Cheese III of the Hamptonfordshire Regional Corps. (Michael's elder brother, Hodgkinson later became a prostitute in the Indian Army.) He was educated in Eton, Scotland and at the Royal Military College, Balmington-Prosset.

Cheese was commissioned as a lieutenant in the 4th Battalion, Yorkshire Pudding and Gravy Division in October 1817 and served as adjutant of the 1st Battalion, Screaming-and-Yelling Gunners in Peru. Promoted to captain in March 1909, he saw action in the Gloomy Voltans; Scrotum, where he was wounded rather nastily; the Inner Hebrides and the Nimbatukitukitickytacky Colony where he was ferociously wounded in the Grunties.

From April to November 1892, Cheese participated in operations against the Great Hairy Boogeymen in Sudatenland. He moved on to Singapore where he did vital research into gin-swilling but returned to participate in further operations against the Great Hairy Boogeymen in 1914-16, in which he commanded the 2nd Sudatenland Llama Corps.

For his services in Singapore, Cheese was mentioned in dispatches.

Nobody said a bloody thing about his services in Sudatenland. Bastards.

I mean, come on, let's be honest – swilling gin in some fancy Singapore club has just got to be easier than single-handedly defeating hordes of vile-smelling Great Hairy Boogeymen. . .

Sorry. Where was I? Ahem.

After another spell in Singapore (he's at it again!), Cheese returned to England in August 1892, where he became staff captain in charge of nibbles for The Fox and Hound, Derbyford Command. Later that year he died.

After recovering in 1942, he rejoined his Llama chums in Malta in May 1876. In November, he was appointed Brigade Major of the Wombat Cavalry.

On 16 July 1902, Cheese was seconded to the Australian Army as Director of Philosophy, with the rank of Major. He was also in charge of the sheep-dip. Cheese was enthusiastic about the task, but dissatisfied with the quality of masturbation being carried out by some of the staff officers, whom he regarded as anally-retentive prats. He was also concerned about the migratory patterns of the blue penguin. On 10 October 1923, Cheese was promoted to Colonel in the British and Andorran Armies.

When war broke out (God alone knows which war... there were so many!), Cheese immediately requested permission to rejoin his beloved Llama Corps. Twit. Permission was not forthcoming; Major General 'Twinky' Beaumont thought the whole idea was too silly and reportedly told Cheese to "stop being such an arse and have another gin, old boy." And so he did.

Later that year he died again.

But he got better.

He was appointed to the British Secret Service on 19 August 1865 as General Field Officer (1st Grade) with the rank of Major General. As such he was particularly responsible for martinis, and the training of the 1st Olive Division at Tolis Outpost in Greece was supervised by Cheese.

Returning to England for the marriage of his parents, Cheese landed at Chelmsford at 5:35 pm on 25 February 1905. He then took the 6:27 to Rochester before transferring to the Bolton Line at Paddington. Due to a delay somewhere near Little Stampfordshire the 8:15 from Clackington-on-Rye didn't arrive at West Thurtonfordshire until 7:34. Mind you, that didn't really affect Cheese because he'd taken the 5:45 to Weston-Suparmarketshire by mistake and wound up at Billingshire Junction at 8:07. From there he hired a car and drove down the M24 until he got to the Westend turn-off**, took the first on the left after the Cupboard Factory and drove for forty-seven minutes down the M-17 before realising he should have taken the second on the left.

By then he was so annoyed with the whole bloody thing that he booked into a Holiday Inn for the night where he had a rather pleasant pinot with a somewhat mundane Beef Wellington. I mean, it was alright but it was nothing to write home about . . . Sergeant Major Gladys 'Smetters' Smetterton of the 17th Pike Division could cook a better Beef Wellington under battle conditions! And the price! Outrageous!

For his services at the Wallington Holiday Inn, Cheese was mentioned in dispatches and made a Lieutenant Colonel in the British Army in September 1893.

On 18 March 1927, Cheese was appointed commander of the newly formed 5th Nellie Melba Brigade, with the rank of Colonel and temporary Brigadier General. His first test was a routine march across Great Stamford Road to get some sweet-and-sour pork with a large combination fried rice (and a few wontons). By the simple expedient of resting his men from 8:50 AM to 3:25 PM, he managed to avoid the hottest hours of the day and still make good time. Although many men fell out, the brigade reached Wangs Takeaway in good order. The brigade ahead of them, under Brigadier General Thwack-Cuplet was less fortunate and Thwack-Cuplet was relieved of his pork chowmein.

The Nellie Melba Brigade moved to France in June 1936 and on 4 February entered the front line in the "loganberry" sector near Armentieres, where Cheese was slightly wounded in the brain. And the Dardenalles. In August 1899, the brigade was committed to action in the gallery of the Collins' Music Hall, East Chiswick. They lost.

On 22 September 1906, the brigade was sent into the line again for Harrods' post-Christmas sale. While inspecting the lamps in the homewares department into which his brigade was about to move, Cheese was wounded by a German shell in "Cheese Road". After an agonising ten hour stretcher journey in which relays of gallant stretcher -bearers laboured strenuously to carry him through the mud from the homewares department to the advanced dressing station, Cheese died that night at the Looney British 17th Casualty Giggling Station. He was buried in shoebox in Brigsgate Cemetry, Huntingdon-Throp- Morton-on-Rye. For his services on the Harrods Front, he was twice mentioned in dispatches.

The official historian, Major F. E. T. Heavy-Breather, described Cheese as "an extraordinary officer with a profound knowledge of comparative dualism, capable of brain, slow of thought but sound of judgement and possessed of the hard pluck of most British loonies" and stated that he was "one of the bravest and most conscientious officers upon the staff". For his headstone, his family chose the epitaph "Here Lies Cheese – And He's Bloody Annoyed!"

*And again on June 12, 1879.

**She's a big fat tart with a moustache. Phone Elsie - +316 3 870 1765


Sources: Looney Dictionary of Biography, 1899-1939, Vol 5, pp. 235-213; Heavy-Breather, F. E. T., The Official History of Idiots in War. Volume II: The Story of Things pp. 786, 362-364, 886; Volume III: The Llamas of West Riding 1916, p. 655

Created by Aubrey Prosselthwaite-Fitzgibbon

E-mail them at Aubrey.prosselthwaitefitzgibbon@awfullyfascinating.co.uk

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My friend, the Porn Star.

I'm a guy. I have the internet. I watch porn. I know this will be shocking for some, but it's the truth. That's what it's for, after all.

Quick Math: 11.0 MB/sec Download Speed + Locked Door = Porn at the Speed of Light.

So, there I am, ready to go -- pre-flight checklist complete:

[X] Crash helmet.
[X] Rubber gloves.
[X] Protective eyewear.
[X] Locked door.
[X] High-speed internet.

I'm surfing around like a maniac, downloading this, viewing that, checking out a couple favorite spots here and there for the good stuff when I find an atom bomb.

It happens in less time than it takes to say.

I'm clicking away when I see a brunette that's just my type. This super cute girl had all the right moves. She's smiling. She's pretty. She's making lots of eye contact. What caught my eye is that she looks like this girl I knew in real life -- so that makes it even hotter. I click a few more pictures and she's starting to look really familiar. No way. This girl doesn't look like a girl I know. It IS a girl I know. Holy shit.

I recognized this girl.

I know her real name. I know where she works. I know her boyfriend. I know her ex-boyfriend. I know this girl in real life.

She is fully nude in most of the shots. She looks fantastic. And the thing is, she's not just posing nude. She's... um, how to say this... interacting. A lot.

Now, I am in a quandary. Do I keep on truckin', or change the page immediately?

To be sure, this girl is smokin' hot. But she's doing porn.

Not nudie pics that a jealous ex-boyfriend put up to get back at her for breaking up with him.
Not cleverly staged shots photoshopped by a jealous ex-lover.
Not pics out and about at Mardi Gras where she flashed some guy and he took a picture and then posted it.

Full on, Grade A, undeniable PORN.

So what's a guy to do? Do I tell her I saw her? Do I never mention it ever EVER, no matter what? Do I blackmail her into having sex with me in return for not posting the pictures and the website address so the whole world can see it?

You see my dilemma, no?

To be sure, I have never mentioned it to her. But what's a Bastard to do?

Now, to be honest, I sympathize. Really, I do. She's young, cute, and if it were me and I was hard up for cash, I'd show my tits in a fucking heartbeat if I thought anyone would want to see them. I like this girl, and I think it's a damn shame she has to resort to this. From the few times I've talked with her, she seems like a genuinely good person.

Was that a lie? Was she faking decency? Or was she just young, pretty, gifted with a gorgeous body and strapped for cash? The opportunity was there so she took it.

Or did she enjoy it? Did she find it empowering and a total ego boost and something that was thrilling in ways that normal life just usually isn't?

To be sure, I'm not judging her, and I don't think it's anybody's place to judge how someone else gets through their life. I have no idea what she's gone through, and for all I know, it's a huge regret and she hates that decision.

But it's on the internet now. It's out there and you can't take it back. If I can find it, you can be damn sure someone else is going to find it -- and how long until someone tells her employer and then it's "Good-bye, job."

Now she's unemployed and strapped for cash again and so she does what she needs to do to get by -- more porn. She still has the guy's number and she doesn't want to, but the rent is due and it pays well (from what I hear) and it's steady work since she's got looks and a body that won't quit, so she does a few more layouts. Then the guy who runs the website says he doesn't want to over-expose her so he stops calling for a while.

She still needs money, so how else to get it? Another 9-to-5 job where she'll make in 2 weeks what she made in 2 hours in front of camera? So she had to take her clothes off... so what? It's not hurting anybody and if a few guys get excited by seeing her naked, then so be it. What an ego boost, right?

So she decides that a straight job is for suckers and that if men are willing to pay top dollar to see her without her clothes, then why shouldn't she take advantage of that? She hears from one of the other models about a club where all you have to do is dance and you make money hand over fist.

You have to take your shirt off, though. No big deal, she's had her picture taken lots of times without her clothes on. This'll just be more of the same, right?

And now this sweet, formerly-innocent girl is stripping in a seedy, smoke-filled club where the music is too loud and the lights are too dim and the men are creeps and all they keep asking is "What's your real name?" and "How much to let me feel you?" and "Can we go to the back room?" and "How much to piss in your mouth?"

On the other hand, isn't it the right of the employer to know that their employee is doing this? Doesn't the employer have a right to protect its image?

So what's a Bastard to do?


And that's the Gospel... according to St. Bastard.

The problem with time is that you can only truly experience it fully and viscerally in moments of real crisis. Clocks are inferior mechanisms compared to our own panic and sense of impending disaster. Time pieces are artificial means to remind us that each moment, we slide further towards the inevitable conclusion. Nothing compares to the reality framed by the moments before and after the other car blindsides you.

The problem with women is that despite women's lib and equality and the Feminist movement, most of them still believe what they're told. Magazines and movies and commercials and television shows and even radio shows tell them that in order to be loved, they must adhere to some ridiculous standard of beauty that is not only unrealistic, but unhealthy, and in most cases, not biologically possible.

The problem with men is that we have a brain and a penis and only enough blood to run one at a time.

The problem with life is that we always rush through the really important bits, and only later realize that we should have savored and enjoyed the experience.

You know how when you go on a trip, you always feel like there's more stuff to do than you have time for? No matter how carefully you plan your vacation, there's always that feeling that somehow you missed something important -- the nagging feeling at the back of your mind that you didn't experience it all. The feeling that if you could just experience one more thing, then everything would be perfect. There's a desperate hollow feeling that you rushed your way through the moments in life where you should've been paying the most attention.

Well, get used to that feeling. That's how your whole life will feel some day.