Story Time Special Edition: A Tribute to Graham Joyce

Graham Joyce died yesterday. He had cancer, it was the bad kind, the kind people don't often win the war against. He wrote a beautiful blog post about it which you can read here. I’m immensely saddened by his passing, I loved his books, in fact, my first ever blog post on this silly little site was a review of one of his books. So when I found out the news today, I felt compelled to write something. Something that doesn't necessarily fit with the usual tone of this blog, but as it is my blog, I decided I can shift tone if I want to. My story time reviews are usually quite silly and giddy but Graham Joyce was such a truly wonderful writer, it just doesn't seem appropriate to write a tribute in my usual profane waffle. Also, please know, when I say he was wonderful, I'm not just saying it because he died yesterday and that's what you say when people die. I'm saying it because I was completely in awe of his beautiful prose and his impressive ability to create and capture a place or time in such perfect detail alongside the mystical and the fantastic. I believe really good fiction doesn't feel like fiction at all, no matter how bizarre the subject matter. That's what Graham Joyce's books were like. He threw you in to another world; he made you believe it was real.

So far, I have read three and a half Graham Joyce books. I make no claims to be his biggest fan, my Graham Joyce journey began only recently. Before Christmas 2013, I had no knowledge of him at all, but as fate often aligns to give us exactly what we didn’t realise we were missing, that Christmas my clever boyfriend took a punt on a book he thought I would like. When I tore away the festive wrapping paper to reveal 'Some Kind of Fairy Tale' (“SKFT”) I was instantly in love with the cover and intrigued by the blurb. I started the book as soon as I could find time between visiting family and eating turkey. My enthusiasm was not misplaced, the book was so enjoyable that I finished it in a few short days and felt a pang of grief when it was over. I was so excited by the book that I talked my boyfriend, my dad and many friends in to reading it too.

So why is this book so special? Graham Joyce once said, "I am less interested in ghosts than in people who see ghosts," and I presume he felt the same way about fairies. SKFT is less a fairy tale than it is a tale about the reappearance of a long lost girl, Tara, and the effect it has on her and her loved ones. Her family were shattered by her loss, her boyfriend was accused of her murder, the authorities were at a loss to explain and Tara herself had to survive an ordeal that was unlike the fairy stories we are often told as children. When she returns twenty years later, the old wounds of those closest to her are not healed but opened and Tara has to learn to adapt to a world, and a family, that has long since left her behind. It’s the unexpected but completely plausible responses and interactions of the characters that make this novel so intriguing, so unlike anything else I’ve read before.

I recently checked out Amazon to see the reviews for SKFT. It had 32 reviews when I first read it, there are 86 now, by rites there should be thousands. The book has a 4 star average with a very small number of 1 star reviews. Being nosey, I had to check out the 1 star reviews. They were exclusively complaints about foul language and sex scenes. So on that note, I'd like to add a caveat - Graham Joyce does not shy away from sex or profanity. But Jesus Christ, it's hardly ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ or ‘Trainspotting’! He writes about interesting characters in realistically fraught relationships and situations, not prudish dullards who throw uneventful tea-parties and exist in a controversy and conflict free zone. Why would any even want him to?! Although, as the old saying goes, 'you can't please everyone.'

After reading SKFT, I started buying up his other books. I read ‘The Silent Land’ next and was equally thrilled with it. It’s one of those unusual stories where you will likely work out the ending fairly early on but what keeps you reading is the mystery of how the characters will arrive at and react to that end. It focuses on a young couple on a skiing holiday who get caught in an avalanche and when they finally manage to free themselves, their resort has been evacuated. They spend their days enjoying each other’s company whilst waiting for a rescue, but things are not quite as they seem and they are plagued by mysterious events and strange figures. Like SKFT it’s incredibly well written and a joy to read but that is about all the books have in common. At this point I began to realise Graham Joyce was an imaginative force to be reckoned with and I was excited to continue reading his work.

My next Joyce book was ‘The Tooth Fairy’, which is another not-quite-fairy-tale. As with SKFT, the fairy is not exactly what you would expect and in fact, is rather grubby in appearance with a cruel and unpredictable nature. The story is focused more on the boy, Sam, and his friends growing up over the course of ten years, than it is with the supernatural element of the tooth fairy. This is considered a modern horror classic and I admit there were parts where I had to keep reading rather than put it down at bedtime because it was so creepy. I did, however, find the book less gratifying than the previous two. I feel like if I had read this one first I would have enjoyed it more because it doesn’t quite live up to the genius of the other two. It is every bit as imaginative, but ever so slightly less well constructed. That said, it is still an excellent read and it didn’t do much to deter my Graham Joyce fanaticism as I then bought ‘Smoking Poppy’ and the ‘Year of the Ladybird’* soon after. I am currently half-way through Ladybird so no doubt a review for that will be forth-coming.

I didn’t know how to start this post and I am equally baffled about how to end it. As I mentioned before, I am well aware that after three (and a half!) books I cannot claim to be his biggest fan, I cannot tell you everything you need to know about his work and I cannot give him the tribute that he really deserves. All I really wanted to do was share with people how much his work inspired me and made me fall in love with reading again, and maybe inspire a few others to seek out his work and see if he has anything of value to offer them too. And as he wrote in his last blog post, “why can’t our job here on earth be simply to inspire each other?”

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* Note: 'The Year of the Ladybird' was published as 'The Ghost in the Electric Blue Suit' for y'all 'muricans and annoyingly the cover is a bit cooler than the British version.

I Bet I Can Make You Miserable

I haven't written anything for a while because, well, because "I am completely miserable, San Diego!" Don't worry, I'm not dying, I'm not even clinically depressed, I’m just miserable. I'm one of those lucky, lucky chicks who gets hit by PMS like a train and all of a sudden I can hardly do anything. Not always, but a few times a year. And when it happens I pretty much turn in to a walking talking mess of profanity and blind hatred. I hate work, I hate people, I hate inanimate objects, I really hate mirrors and I probably even hate puppies. I don't want to leave the house and if you make me you better make damn sure you hold my hand otherwise I may well jump in front of a bus.

I'm slowly coming through the other side and have decided to get the hell back to work, blog work anyway. I don't write when I'm grumpy because I'd probably just write "Oh please just fuck off world" over and over and over again and the internet deserves better than that. Not much better, but definitely a bit better.

So, what a week to miss! Russia is totally invading the Ukraine but no-one's really talking about that, I'm sure it's okay though and they'll probably totaallllyyy behave once they get their way just this one time. I mean if History has taught us anything it’s that… oh, actually… wait. Also in the news, uppity prudes everywhere took to the media to tell female celebrities that if they don’t want their naked photos stolen then they should just NOT TAKE NAKED PHOTOS. Also burglary victims could help out by just not having houses and in fact victims of all crimes should just not exist because existing is just asking for trouble and if y'all could go ahead and juuuust kill yourselves, that'd be super and the world would be a much safer place.

In news yesterday, Prince William has blown his royal load in to the royal vagina and knocked up Princess Kate again... I assume in a desperate attempt to evoke some national pride and woo Scotland in to not leaving us in that little referendum thing they have coming up. Because nothing says, “We understand you’re pissed off about being minimum wage slaves for rich tyrants,” like bringing yet another freeloading Overlord in to the world for them to curtsy to. In seriousness, if there are any Scots reading, please don't leave us. We know you're angry and we know we've let you down, but please, give us another chance. If you leave, you abandon us to a Tory Government for, well, the foreseeable future until the end of days. I know we did bad at the last election, we didn’t mean to, we thought we were voting Lib Dem, we didn’t know that meant we were voting Tory. Please, give us another chance and I promise you that will NEVER happen again!

In other news, Islamic State and...... Oh who cares, we're all doomed. DOOMED I SAY!!!

(P.s. See how much fun I am when I'm PMSing?)

Confetti, Wedding Bells and Swollen Bellends

That's a mighty fine looking bush you have there.

Ahh, weddings, a time for laughter, a time for romance, a time for acting at least ten times classier than you really are. And for most people, a time for being on time. But I am not most people. Nope, I'm more like a fucking wedding-ruining cyborg developed by mad but undoubtedly lonely love-hating scientists. As a result, my boyfriend and I rocked up at the church a full fifteen minutes later than we were supposed to. Luckily for us, the bride was also running late herself so the doors were still open. Unluckily for us, when the Priest saw a cab pulling up directly out front, he naturally assumed the Bride had finally arrived and told the organist to start playing. Consequently, I had to enter the church of a wedding that was NOT MY OWN and totter awkwardly down the aisle while the organist played, 'Here Comes The Bride' and the guests stood and turned to look, before tutting and sitting back down again. Even for me, that's pretty damn ridiculous.

After a glory-stealing start, the real bride finally arrived (although not before the groom had managed to work up a really nice cold sweat) and the service got going. I haven’t been to a church wedding for some time and I forgot about all the praying and hymn singing you have to do. This was a little uncomfortable for my boyfriend and I, given that we don’t know any hymn’s because we are dirty non-church-going sinners. I just had to hope nobody was paying attention as the cheeky bastard late-comers mouthed silently, “Words and more words and Jeeeessusss soooommmeeethiiiiing.” If God was watching I’m pretty sure we just definitively made his Naughty List. Hymn awkwardness aside, the service was beautiful. Although, I've realised I’ve got a bit of a strange fixation on the part where they say, "With my body I honour you." There's something really enjoyable about watching two people subtly make reference to stuffin' the muffin in front of their parents and grandparents. Teeheheee, I’m an adult.

All aboard the Knight Bus, pip pip, cheerio, lads

After the church service the guests all hopped aboard the incredibly British Wedding Bus (which was probably used in at least one Harry Potter movie) to the garden party reception. Man-servants in waistcoats buzzed around handing out champagne and calling me “Miss” as I made immature garden puns to concerned looking strangers. Despite the rough start, the socialising was going pretty well, right up until some tiny but inherently evil woman decided to ask why my boyfriend and I weren’t married. Just a heads up married people, that is not an okay thing to ask total strangers! ‘Are you married?’ - Fine. ‘Why aren’t you married?’ - Not so much! And it’s particularly unacceptable to refuse to drop the subject when the people you're talking to look uncomfortable. LEARN TO READ THE ROOM, ASSHOLE!

Here’s how far this woman took it:

      Her: Are you guys married?
      Us: Nope.
      Her: Why not?
      Us: Erm… that seems… inappropriate.
      Her: Have you not talked about marriage?
      Us: Er... no... well... wait-.
      Her: Don’t you think you should have?

This woman was like the fucking Terminator of wedding guest botherers and I found myself feeling genuinely defensive about my marital status. Luckily, my boyfriend is not so easily fazed and he leaned forward and said, “We've only been together 18 months, it’s a little soon for that.” But he said it in such a blunt and scathing tone that he explicitly implied, “That is the end of this conversation, or else you will receive a kick in the snatch.” Ahhh, my hero. 

The food came, was awesome and was quickly scoffed. The speeches were cool, the Groom’s was practically a drinking game as he asked us to raise a toast to; the parents of the bride (sip), the canon who performed the ceremony (sip), the photographer (sip), family (sip sip), friends (sip sip), guests who’ve travelled from afar (sip), the caterers (sip), the band (sip sip), the dj (sip) and of course his beautiful bride (gulp). By the end of that I was shit-faced and ready to throw some shapes but I had to wait until after the first dance, which was the usual sickening lovey-dovey bullshit... (I kid, it was totes classy).

Not just for keeping keys together...

The rest of the evening was a blur of wine refills, God awful dancing and chatting drunken nonsense. Although I do remember one last thing. As a Tarantino fan, I was pretty upset to have missed the chance to twist to 'You Never Can Tell' by Chuck Berry BUT at the time it was playing, I was engrossed in conversation with a Fireman who was telling me all about this one time when he got called out to a hospital with bolt cutters to remove a small, metal ring from the person of an elderly gentleman. Remove? From where? Come on folks, I think we all know. Do you really need me to say, explicitly, that this poor, wizened old man got a metal ring stuck around the base of his poor, wizened old penis and that it was so swollen that it looked more like an aubergine than a dick? Great, now you've totally ruined the whole tone of my beautiful wedding post.

GBBO #Bingate - Is nothing sacred anymore?!

Outrage Level: BOSS

I was in a rare good mood yesterday.* So much so that I resolved to avoid the news and it’s unceasing doomsdaymageddon BS for a single day and focus only on shiny happy nice things for a change. So, what did I do? What EVERY sensible British person does at this time of year, yup, watch the Great British Bake Off ('GBBO'). My first ever episode, in fact! I bought cake, I had a friend over, I made us tea. The evening was set to be downright delightful, like something out of a Beatrix Potter book but with less talking animals and more giggling at silly food names (“Massive spotted dick” – teehehehe).

For those who don't know, GBBO is a cooking competition set in a white tent in the beautiful grassy green of the English countryside. It's hosted by Mel and Sue, two daft women who pull funny faces and delight in terrible food jokes. The judges, Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood are so sweet and charming that their criticism gets about as vicious as, "Well that looks, er, interesting." Call a spade a spade, guys, it looks like something a virus-riddled vulture vomited up. But no, they never would, because this is GBBO gosh darn it! GBBO is light-hearted fluffy fun, it's a nationwide cake break from all that is wrong with the world.

Until last night, when doddering old lady/super-villain Diana took fellow contestant Iain's Baked Alaska ice-cream cake out of the freezer and left it on her bench to melt in to a puddle of broken dreams. Upon finding the dripping dairy disaster and realising his hopes for the show were lost, Iain slammed the ice-cream cake in to the bin and stormed off set. And who can say they'd have done differently under that amount of pressure? It's a timed competition, you can't just start over. So... how did the judges respond to what appeared to be a blatant act of sabotage? THEY. DID. NOTHING. In fact, they voted Iain off the show because he hadn't been able to produce a cake for the final round. And did they deal with Diana? Nope, not even a slap on the wrist as far as the viewers could see. 

Lady Justice lay down on her floor and she wept.

I’ll take a minute to address those of you who may be thinking, 'Jeeez, this bitch is crazy, why is she so upset about a baking competition, it's only cake for God's sake!' WELL IT'S NOT JUST CAKE! IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE THE BASTION OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND RIGHT AND SWEET WITH THE WORLD. IT'S A BEACON OF HOPE IN AN OTHERWISE GREY AND DISASTER FILLED EXISTENCE. If I wanted to see that life is unfair and horrible, I'd be paying attention to real fucking life, okay?!? 

What the hell were the producers thinking when they included the #bingate footage but failed to have the judges comment on it? I can only assume (with my now completely cynical mind that may never trust again) that maybe the show needed a bit of a ratings boost and the producers decided to fabricate a bit of controversy to get us talking? Well GBBO, if that's the plan then why stop there? Why not make the competition more interesting by taking the bakers loved ones hostage and threatening to cut off their nipples should you come in last. And why not bring in Gordon Ramsey to start asking the bakers what the fuck they were thinking when they presented a plate full of toxic waste disguised as cake? And hey, instead of simply voting the bakers off, why not line them up and have an ex-marine kick them face first in to a puddle of bile and faeces?! This is all golden if we're changing the format of the show to make it more Twitterageous. If not, maybe sack off the controversy and stick to cakes so that we poor fools have one thing we can cling to that doesn't make us totally lose our shit on Twitter?

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*Why was I in a good mood? Because the lovely Eric over at Opticynicism had given me some much appreciated blog-loving. It’d be bloody lovely regardless but the fact that his blog is hilarious and waaaaaay more established than mine made it extra special. You should definitely check him out here.

Just like Hemmingway...

This weekend my boyfriend abandoned me to attend a Stag Party and illness prevented me from doing much with my days so I resolved to have a nice relax and to catch up on some housework and book-reading like the absolute girl scout that I am. Boring but Yay me and my good girl ways, right? Because I am an ADULT now. Hmm, well, it turns out, when I get the house to myself and have total freedom, I don’t exactly feel motivated to cook, clean and otherwise behave like a good little wifey. In fact, I get a bit Hemmingway… If Hemmingway wore face masks and ate too much cake, which I’m sure he did.

Here’s what I had planned to do with my free weekend:

1. Get laundry out of machine and hang to dry on drying rack, outside if sun is out. Put another load of laundry in machine.
2. Take the boyfie’s trousers to dry cleaners because he got sick on them at that wedding we were at last month… (Wonder whether I need to explain and apologise to the laundry lady about the sick or just shrug and say, “Open bar.”)
3. Wash dishes in kitchen and clean up in there because I am not a student anymore!
4. Catch up on some reading like a proper literati, consider calling father or Godfather to discuss serious literary works that have been read.
5. Write highly intellectual blog post which gives a clear solution for peace in the Middle East or similar.

Here’s what I actually did with my free weekend:

1. Through practical experimentation and charting of emotional responses, assessed why peeing with bathroom door open is so strangely satisfying.
2. Went to supermarket for fresh produce to create healthy meals for the weekend, somehow managed to leave supermarket and return home clutching only wine and a childrens party's worth of cakes.
3. Changed in to PJs and remained looking hideous for entirety of the weekend. Improved ridiculousness of the “look” by wearing a face mask to watch TV. Enjoyed not having to hide in the bathroom with it on like when boyfriend is home. Realised that, actually, when hiding in bathroom for 10 minute face mask it probably just seems to boyfriend like I’m taking a huge and painfully difficult dump which is considerably more troubling and less attractive than just Beyoncé strutting through the house with a massive mint green face. Resolve to no longer hide in bathroom when wearing face masks.
4. Ate all the cake, drank all the wine. Felt a bit sick, pushed through it, because I AM A WARRIOR!
5. Thought about how liberating it is to be home alone drunk in the day time, like Hemmingway or Jack London. Then thought I’m probably not exactly the same as Hemmingway when I find myself singing Foreigner power ballads in to an empty wine bottle microphone (“I WANNA KNOW WHAT LOVE IIIISSSS! I WANT YOU TO SHOOOWW MMEEEE!”) and lying on floor, re-enacting Jack and Rose in water scene from Titanic ("I’ll never let go, Jack!" but then totally let go because Rose is a fucking liar).

Number of chores completed: 0.
Number of books or enlightening newspaper articles read: 0.
Sum total contribution to anything outside of the inevitable destruction of my mental well-being: 0.

Oh, I also let the stray cat that I claim to hate in for a cuddle.

Parents of the world, I salute you!

As a woman in my (very, shhh) late twenties, I am sort-of-almost-getting-there ready to have kids… at some point… in the future… when I’m a bit more ready. This may not sound like the definition of ‘broodiness’ but it’s a frog leap forward from just a few years ago when I thought babies were mini shit'n'vomit machines that destroyed otherwise delightful lives. I held on to that view for probably longer than most, but like I said, I’m over it because I’d quite like a miniature me to mould in to a happier, stronger, more intelligent version of me. Me 2.0, if you will (we can debate whether this is an acceptable reason to have children another time). That said, I don’t have any nieces or nephews or very young cousins so it’s not like I have any experience of the thing that I sort-of-almost-don’t-fucking-rush-me  want. That was, until the weekend just passed, where I got to spend my weekend with, not one, but TWO toddlers! Yep, three year old twins to be precise. I was kind of excited. I was extremely naive.

Ring-a-Roses; Like Caveman Training, only harder

Upon arrival there was already much running, screaming and giggling from boy-twin and girl-twin as they zoomed between rooms like whippets on amphetamines, but they seemed to calm down when they realised there was a scary stranger in their midst. They peaked at me coyly and referred to me in hand-cupped whispers as “that lady”. It was pretty cute and I was pretty smitten.

A long walk to the pub, an evening meal and a trip to the park were planned to be adventure enough to tire the little whipper-snappers out before bedtime [hindsight lolz]. The meal itself was pretty impressive, I expected much throwing of food, screaming and refusing to sit still but there was none of that. They sat, they ate, they chatted. I’ve behaved worse at meals myself after a few glasses of adult grape juice, if I’m being totally honest. Post civilised feeding, we ventured on to the park where the twins were pushed round on things, swung up and down on things and then quite literally ran in circles for a good ten minutes. The journey home was expected to be a quiet one… [More hindsight lolz].

On the walk home I watched as my boyfriend picked up and swung round boy-twin and I felt a pang of nostalgia for when my Dad used to swing me around too. I wanted a go! Not being swung round, I’m in my (very, shhh) late twenties, for God’s sake. I wanted to be the swing. So I got involved with picking up, swinging round, throwing up in the air and, after a paltry 5 minutes, I was exhausted. The twins, however, did not share my exhaustion.

    -    “AGAIN! AGAIN!”
    -    “I can’t, boy-twin, I’m too tired, my arms are going to fall off.”
    -    “No.” [No further explanation, just “No” and an accusatory frown]
    -    “Yes, they are, look.” [Waves arms around as if somehow demonstrating tiredness through the medium of mime]
    -    “Noooo.” [Accusatory frown]

So I kept going until I was at much more serious risk of a dislocated shoulder. It was the frown that got me, on that bloody adorable face! Seriously, it was like what angels would look like if they wore Batman t-shirts. (I sure as hell hope my future kids are fuck-ugly so they can’t control me like that.)

Playing dead to get a few seconds rest

Once home, the demon seeds, I mean children, were still full of beans despite the adults all needing serious naps. When the time came for them to be put into their PJs they had to be caught and grappled in to a state of nudity in a scene that closely resembled a pig wrestling competition and made me genuinely nervous about ending up on a register! And once nude, the children thought it would be hilarious to curl up and contort themselves in to solid shapes like dead spiders (MADE OF IRON!) and refuse to be clothed. All the time giggling while farting like pros, gleefully filing the room with toxic tear-inducing gases as we wrestled them back in to clothes. Honestly, it was kind of hilarious, but the idea of doing that twice a day – Yikes.

When they finally went to sleep I was full of unaskably stupid questions. Like how come the human race had not died out? It’d been one day… barely a day, in fact! Half a day! …and I felt like I needed a week long retreat at a spa hotel. Am I just really, excessively precious?!? How have more parents not dropped dead of exhaustion, leaving their offspring to escape in to the wild and grow up feral? Is that how Peter Pan’s Lost Boys got lost? Are there parent training classes you can go to where you’re limits are tested, pushed and exceeded prior to being given a baby? Is it the cuteness that keeps you going when you’re running on empty? Or is there some inherent strength that comes from knowing that these are YOUR babies and if they want to be picked up and swung round, then by God, they will be picked up and swung round even if it means losing an actual arm?

My head is spinning with the mission impossible that seems to be everyday parenthood and I just wanted to write this post as a way to say to any parents out there: ‘High five!' Seriously, high five for all the nights you probably fall asleep with your face on a plate of food or pile of Lego. High five for all the days you keep going when all you want to do is lie down and smoke a joint. You guys are like marathon runners, but better, because you do it every day and you don’t shit yourselves in the street. (I presume). So high five parents, high five for keeping the species going… unlike those lazy bastard pandas.

CLICK-BAIT COULD BE KILLING YOU! Click here to find out how…

Hello my fellow rage-monkeys,

Today we’re going to talk about click-bait. Don’t know what click-bait is? Click-bait is when writers and marketers use desperate and underhand methods to get you to view their content (like this title does – forgive me). Don’t get me wrong, click-bait is not always bad. There’s harmless heart-string plucking click-bait from sites like Upworthy.com. You know, like, when you see an ad or video in your Facebook feed titled, ‘This homeless alcoholic found a kitten in a tiara, what happens next will ASTOUND YOU.’ Meh, what harm does it do? Other than lie to you, of course, because you might chuckle or crease up and “Awwww” at the video but I doubt you’ll rock back on your chair and clutch your head, screaming, “HOLY SHIT! THAT WAS ASTOUNDING!” But ultimately, your day and emotional well-being will remain unchanged.

AWW HELL NO

Then there’s another kind of click-bait. The rage-inducing kind. This is the kind I hate, because it makes me fucking angry… See, I’m livid right now. This kind of click-bait is intended to upset you, to tell you that the world is a horrible, hate-filled place and boy should you lose your shit about it right. now. I’m talking about articles about say, some Z-list celebrity calling Robin Williams “selfish” for committing suicide. It provokes anger that someone could be so judgemental without having a single-fucking-iota of insight in to Robin’s personal struggles and at the same time contributing to the already overflowing sea of ignorance surrounding mental health issues, especially in men. Ya see kids, for some whey-protein-brained thunder-cunts, it’s still considered unmanly to be depressed, to feel incapable of carrying on, ‘Men should be strong and selfless alphas… Like War Machine.’

Do you see what I did there; I went off on a rage-induced rant, because click-bait made me angry about something that really, I shouldn’t even have known about. I did the same thing when I found out Westborough Baptist Church plans to picket Robin’s funeral because he sometimes played gay/gay-friendly characters. That rant went like this: SERIOUSLY! JUST FUCK OFF YOU UNGODLY SCUM-SUCKING CAVE-DWELLING INBRED MEDIA-WHORE FUCKTARDS!

Then I thought, whose day was ruined here? Whose emotional well-being was disrupted? Yep, MINE. And maybe yours too if you had a similar (but probably less profane) reaction to these stories. And why? Because some media fucknuts decided to make it “news”. Some asshole saying something assholey does not need to be news, but it sure does sell more than dweeby so-called “proper news.” If a website can create a title that upsets and angers us it makes us more likely to click through to the article and, by default, increase their site traffic. This means they can report back to their evil advertisement overlords that they get ‘X number of unique visitors each month’ and ‘Y numbers of clicks per minute’.  So they’re peddling hate for monetary gain, wouldn't that make them kind of like Satan's little helpers? Yes kids, yes it would.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is this: Maybe the next time you see a headline that makes you jerk forward with your best AWW-HELL-NO face on, ask yourself, ‘Is this really something I need to see? And if you do, ‘Does the injustice justify the rage?’ For articles about terrorism, war, miscarriages of justice, media and political corruption, etc then the answers should probably be ‘Yes Pleb, of course, you derp!’ But for articles about barely-even-famous-anymore folks saying douchey things, maybe they should be No. The less we read this tripe, the less they’ll produce because it will no longer be financial viable. So instead of clicking, why not carry on living your awesome life? After all, the Twitterati will respond to Twitter douchery with counter-vitriol and politicians and the police can deal with douche groups in their local community – and all that can be achieved without assholes being given a global stage for their assholery and upsetting our otherwise beautiful days.