Cheers for the heads up.

I suppose that the intention behind this warning is to alert the toilet occupant that the water is not potable. Well, after a cursory glance at the state of the lavatory and complementary stench, you really don't need a sign to tell you that.

It reads less like a warning and more like an evaluation after a taste test. Gag.

Why I hate clowns, dolls and dummies...

Because of creepy shit like this.

And this.

Some Hinterland's Who's Who Shit #2

I have been given the opportunity to roll around Japan - land of quality adverts and oddballs - doing some crap and seeing some shit. I will occasionally drop a post or two when possible. Or not.

Holy Christ. I just saw the most fucking hideous turtle! EVER! Incidentally, turtles are my favourite animals. They are, like, the outcast loners and shut-ins of the animal kingdom. Just like me. And slow. Just like me. Anyhow, they normally have beak like mouths. But this ugly sucker has a porcine snout and a mouth that - when opening -has a suction cup effect. NOT AT ALL like me. They have this unusually long and powerful neck that, I shit you not, allows them to flip around should they happen to find themselves on their backs. As you can see from the EXCESSIVELY manicured photo on the right, they have webbed feet with deceptively agile fingers, or whatever the fuck those things are. I'm sure they could probably wield a knife, if pressed. Yugh. My skin totally crawled. They also made me feel a little gaggy. Kind of makes you question the rounded effects of the Hiromshima/Nagasaki bombings. In addition, they are totally hostile and start crunking when faced with an opponent, be it an animal or a leaf. Then again, I would be pretty cranky if I had live out my entire existence looking like an uncircumcised penis attached to a slimy discman.

Musicos and Other Imbeciles

From time to time, each and everyone of us had the occasional bug fly up our asses and die. Here are my Top Five among the swarm of human locusts who never seem to miss my asshole:

1. Musicos:You know who they are. You may have had an argument with one. Hell, you may have even bottled one upside the head. And for your sake, I hope to God you did. What the fuck is a musico, you ask? Oh, you didn't ask, you say? Well, fuck you, cos I'm gonna tell you anyway. In one word: assbites. In more words: pedantic assbites who can suck the joy of listening to music. Like fucking clockwork, they ALWAYS manage to ruin a civilized rap session. And its always the same trivial set up. If you love a band, one of these dickheads will be sure to make an appearance, so as to psychically urinate in your mouth about it. As always, musicos respond pretty much in the same manner as anyone who would react to someone having just said: "I sure dig touchin' children inappropriately." Thus, the conversation spirals downward, never to be resurrected into a mature dialogue. Ever. Again.
   
2. Retards who, for reasons unbeknownst to the sane, no longer refuse items with a good old fashioned "NO, THANK YOU": Now, what the hell happened here? I notice this shit occurring at a greater magnitude in connection to people who are on a severely restricted diet (not necessarily due to health issues) or are following a fitness regimen with a Nazi-like precision. Preciousness begets the insufferable. Hey fucker, I asked if you wanted a piece of cake, not a colostomy with a bendy-straw, a'ight? Please die.
   
3. Disabled people who apoplectically refuse your help. Don't want my help? Fine. But don't fucking rag me out about it, you gimptard. Bah.
   
4. Cartards. Now, this is one seriously tragic contingent of eye-rolling and shiftless 10-year-olds who are clearly trapped in the chunky bodies of 30-to-40-year-olds, if I ever saw one. Posturing over heavily modified shitboxes or "race-ready" glorified go-carts. And their poor fucking neglected girlfriends. So ready for the picking, btw. They stand around like idiots while you dorks whack off over the latest atrocity inflicted on your chariot. Oh, and by the way, great F1 wing on your Precidia there, sport.
   
5. Blackberry fuckheads. I know we live in an increasingly interconnected world. I concede that technology is not only a modus, but a currency in a global context. But! I draw a fucking line. Look at yourself. Shouting into your digital mobile wang like a harpy on crack, because the recipient of your bore-ass conversation - and I know it is boring because I CAN HEAR YOU DOWN THE FUCKING HALL - can't hear you. Do the world a favour: switch to a landline, you fucker. Sigh. I can already hear the whinging. 'But a landline isn't always available. Wah' Trust me. Judging from the content of your insipid monologue - and I say 'monologue' because you haven't given the other person a word in edgewise, which is totally making me doubt the existence of an ACTUAL whole other person on the other end and convincing me that it is all a constructed ruse to make it appear that you have friends - in the last half-hour, whatever you want to say can surely wait.
   

Bra-ha-ha

I went shopping for undergarments today. Ooofah. Nothing like having one's body parts be subjected to a severe public indictment in the course of several hours as a part of a fun-filled weekend. After being trapped in the bra labyrinth at Sears, it became clear that my tits are mishapen. Not just a slight difference. It appears that one is boob is larger than the other. And to be quite honest, they look like a dumb pairing. Between Frankenboob, Mini-boob and Calvin Klein posters of preening vixens, I couldn't help but feel like total shit. After a couple of hours - depleted of oxygen and dehydrated - you start entertaining various thoughts, ranging from drastic body modifications to selecting narcotics that are best suited in shielding you from the glaring harsh lights of reality. By the way, I suggest Ativan. On an hourly basis, mind you.

Crosstown Snapshot an' Shit #2

"Apparently, like, knee-slappingly serious, folks. "

I spotted this in a local free rag. What an unfortunate picture. Hilarious, but unfortunate. Hard to take the issue du jour seriously, when the naysaying doctor and his colleague are actually cracking up in their profile shot. Maybe that's just me, but...*shrug*

Gagging for It #3

L'Enfant
4 out of 5 pitchforks

I received free passes for a movie (no shit) at a local small cinema house from an associate and decided to watch this summertime feel-good-movie - courtesy of that happy Dardennes pair - with a good buddy. The film employed some gritty camera work and no shitty soundtrack to put you off, thereby giving the flick a documentary feel to it. A total bonus. The film centres around the lives of a young couple who just had a baby and are trying to keep their lives together, albeit in a spectacularily shitty way. The film starts with Sonia (Deborah Francois) coming back from the hospital after giving birth and finding out that Bruno (Jeremie Renier) subleted HER flat to a complete stranger. Pretty rad, huh? So she traipses across town looking for Bruno to a) get an explanation and b) introduce Jimmy to his papa. When we finally meet Bruno, we realize what it is that he does for a living, which makes this whole thing really depressing. Yet, it is so fucking tough on the balls NOT to be hard on the guy, as one will observe.

Bruno manages to suck it up and head to city hall with Sonia in tow, to sign and acknowledge Jimmy under the eyes of law, much in the same manner of enthusiasm one would sign and acknowledge, say, a crappy Vauxhall. Some time passes. Bruno, forever the model of restraint, sells his kid. Oh, imagine the wacky adventure that ensues. Jesus Christ. Most people get jobs, I guess. Whatev. Anyways, die duchebag tells Sonia that he sold the kid, but that the silver lining is the wad of coin he got for Jimmy. Sonia goes catatonic. Bruno is dismayed by Sonia's inability to see his brilliance. After all, he reasons, they can make another one. At this point, I just want Bruno to get hit by a lorry. Soon enough, Sonia's hysterics call upon the unwanted attention of the hospital administration. Even worse, the police. Sigh. So Bruno takes off in an attempt to get his sprog back. Bring the cash and get the kid back. Easy. Much like returning a baking dish to Zellers? Not even remotely, kids, as we see the creepy roughneck assholes behind the baby market scheme reveal themselves. They lean on Bruno pretty heavy, and it all circles the shitter pretty damn fast. All this makes Bruno's carelessness pose the question: who is the child in this clusterfuck? What we see is Bruno, an aging gamin who plays in the mud, the water, munches on croque monsieurs and thrives on pinball.

By the end, I was gobsmacked. We see a turn-around (sorta) with Bruno, and his awakening (or growth) as a man. I neither gasped or cursed, nor cried like a little girl. I couldn't decisively muster a reaction. Perhaps it is that the underlying pathetic and developmentally arrested nature of the characters just paralyzed me. Or, perhaps it's due to me being just an unfeeling asshole in general. Who knows? Anyhoo! The ending was more than appropriate for a film that whizzed by pretty quick (thank fucking God), never letting you linger on a judgement.