'I'm convinced, just tell it to go away now...'
In years gone by, if you wanted advice on how to pleasure your llama or remove various stains from the inside of a van, then you'd ask an older sibling, worldly pal, or that big lad from the garage who can “fix things”. Not so these days, there's no question so shameful that we won't callously thrust it into the tiny white crevice of the all-knowing e-guru that is Google.
But every single brain-scratch they've alleviated and every fingernail they've stopped you chewing has been recorded and archived somewhere in their limitless memory banks. They remember everything you've ever asked them. Ever. It's not just that either, chances are if you've used them to navigate the web then they've also got a record of where you've been, every form you've filled out and every conversation you've had. And they're keeping it.
Can you imagine if Google made a play for some serious political power with all that dirt on us? I didn't vote for Cameron, but if he'd been clutching a little notebook with comprehensive records of all my 4am image searches, I probably would have.
What's more, they've secretly developed some sort of doomsday device that's capable of controlling the weather. Don't believe me? Get onto Google Street View and try and find a photo, anywhere on earth, that isn't sunny. Super-villains.
The Happiness of Celebrities
Hold on just a second there Mr “I'm too intelligent to care about the lives of girl bands and big brother contestants”, suspend your disbelief for a moment and follow me down this hideous, luminescent path.
Firstly, consider the lifestyle of the sssleb in its native environment, can you imagine living like that? Run out of milk; just get one of your legion of lackeys to run to the shops. Dog been hit by a bus; simply buy five new ones and have the driver shot. Got nothing to do; buy a dune buggy and demolish the hopes, dreams and sandcastles of the commoners whose trashy magazine habit not only paid for your cock-shaped swimming pool but also keeps you in plentiful supply of 'Charlie Sheen'.
So if Jordan can't crack a smile between marriages, then what in the name of Heat magazine have we got to be happy about?
Celebrities, no matter how well deserved or quickly fleeting their status is, have all the things in life that you and I aspire to one day earn. If they're miserable, then that means that money, friends, nice furniture, a massive yacht, sexy bikini parties, diamond vajazzles and 3 billion Twitter followers WOULDN'T actually enrich the lives of saps like you and I.
It would mean that every reason we think we have for getting out of bed on those cold mornings and trudging to our desks is a complete and total fallacy and our miserable little existences are based on nothing more than futile aspirations. So if Jordan can't crack a smile between marriages, then what in the name of Heat magazine have we got to be happy about?
Yeah, you feel that? That dull thud tapping away inside your head...
Jellysifh, and specifically Box Jellyfish, are absolutely terrifying. They gleefully bob around the water with the grace and eloquence of a gay lava lamp but pack enough venom to kill something like sixty people. That's Middlesborough's entire home attendance wiped out by a single bobbing piece of aggression and cell membrane.
Here are some facts to help loosen your bowels. When they arrive on our sandy shores is determined by the rise of a full moon (yes, exactly like werewolves), they actually have eyes and will see you long before you see them and every one of their three metre long tentacles contains 500,000 harpoon shaped needles that inject a cripplingly painful toxin that attacks your brain, heart and skin simultaneously. All this from something that looks like a 29th century neon genital.
“But... but...” you stammer, “Why would they possibly want to hurt us? We humans are a lovely bunch who'd happily lend them a few quid for a cuppa or hold their place in the delicatessen queue”. Well, did you ever see the movie A Shark's Tale? Dreamworks animated quite a few celebrities for that one. Fish got Will Smith, sharks got Robert de Niro and jellyfish got Christina Aguilera warbling on like a Doberman having it's balls used like a Wii remote. They're SUPER pissed about it.
Suppose for a moment that their bodies aren't frail, they're just taking the piss so we'll all go out of our ways to get their shopping in for them. Crafty, eh?
Controversial perhaps, but he idea that the elderly have their heads screwed on better than the rest of us has cross my mind lately. Suppose for a moment that their bodies aren't frail, they're just taking the piss so we'll all go out of our ways to get their shopping in for them. Crafty, eh?
Also suppose that the onset of age doesn't cause one to lose their wits at all, and that instead they just enjoy having an excuse when they lose at board games or a perfectly good reason never have anything “new” forced upon them. In truth I can't really be arsed to buy a tablet computer or digest all the developments in the middle-east but, being young, I feel obliged to do it.
“What's that Mavis? You mowed down that cyclist because your eyes aren't what they used to be? Awh hey, we all understand. Don't worry about those potential manslaughter charges either. Do you need me to give you a lift home and pick you up some milk?” What saps they've made of us all.
Not my gran though, my gran's lovely.
Julia Roberts' mouth
No, really. I have a recurring nightmare about Julia Roberts which not only scares the living poop, pee and bejesus out of me, but is so disturbingly plausible that with every passing day, I come to fear it more and more.
It all starts off with me being jolted out of my slumber to find her standing at the end of my bed. Nothing too alarming at first, she disarms my initial shock with the gentlest of corner-mouth smiles and a delicate, vacant stare. Just as I've managed to sufficiently collect myself to ask her what she's doing she cuts me off by slowly opening her mouth. If you've seen Julia Roberts in anything you'll know that her gob is disproportionately bigger than her cold, dead face – like a distressed manatee trying to eat itself to death.
Anyway, her mouth starts opening... and opening... and opening. In fact it doesn't stop opening. I feel the bed sheets being pulled towards the giant gaping orifice in her face and I grab them as tightly as I can. But it's no use, I soon feel the entire bed beginning to move as the gravity from her cavernous chops begins to drag me and the entire rest of the room towards it. Inside there's no teeth or tongue, just an infinite blackness I'm doomed to float through for eternity, with only some slightly “off-white” sheets for company.
I'd like to see Professor Brian Cox explain how that's wonderful.
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