Theme: This Year I’m Celebrating Festivus!

Theme: This Year I’m Celebrating Festivus!

I am so excited about this you guys. This year I celebrate the second coming of Christ. He is back! Let me tell you. So last this morning at work the board was in a corporate meeting. We were reconsidering our investment in the car industry due to the latest turmoil with emission, lies and half-truths. As a company we would rather not be associated with these shady dealings as it may turn the spotlight on us. And when push comes to shove, we just do not need that kind of attention. Simon, our head of the accounting team, was making his case: “Gentlemen, if the media found out we made our investmenets knowingly, it would put us in a bad position.” “How so?,” asked our head of human resources, Pillock. Pillock was a furious charismatic chap with a smile as warming as a mother’s kiss. He was extremely good at his job. Taking care of employees and pandering to people with money came naturally to him. Our CEO, the good Mr. Greatbigmoneybags described Pillock as: “A brainless brown-noser,” yet Pillock was always invited on poker nights. “Isn’t it obvious?,” aksed Derrik. Greatbigmoneybags coughed: “Yes, quite.” Pillock looked like a biker caught in a storm without a helmet for a second, but he relented. “So, what do you think we should invest in instead?” “It’s not that simple,” began Derrik. “Why not?,” asked Pillock. “Isn’t it obvious?,” came the reply. Silence. “Let me elaborate,” Derik began: “If we flat out drop our investments now, we would stand to lose shitloads of cash.” “Can’t have that,” commented Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “So we need to invest in something that will facilitate the growth of the car industry while in and of itself being a good investment.” “Wouldn’t it be sufficient to just be an investmenet less terrible than our current engagement with the car industry?,” piped Ruby. She was the head of overseas production. Cute as a button and sharp as a razor, Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had noticed her talents early in her career. “Recent legislation demands at least 25% women on the board,” Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had told me: “She’s too many brains and too much initiative for her own good. Let her travel overseas when she gets too much. Let her lead the production, I say. And with 8 on the board and Richards murdered by the Chinese mob, or gangsters or whatever they call them, we need a woman more on the board. Awards us a bilateral amount with the whole ‘equalising women in the workplace’-thing going on. Good investment and we get her tits out of my tits. Win, win, I tell you.” None dared oppose him. And Ruby had just spend the week prior to the choice implementing a new paradigm at the coffee machine where if you would empty the machine, put a new one on right away, rather than have her make it every 30 minutes. We drink a lot of coffee. Needless to say, this was bloody annoying and she had to go. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags hired a local secretary to be her stand-in when she was overseas. Dumb-dumb we call him. Dumb and mute. Just as we like it. Makes a mean cup of coffee, too. And he never complains about making it. “Win, win,” as Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had said: “Win, win.”

Pillock looked puzzled at the statement and Derrik was somewhat taken aback: “Yes, that would be sufficient, but not optimal.” “Optimal in what way?,” asked Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “Financially,” answered Simon and Derrik in unison. “Can’t have that,” coughed Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “Well, do we have any ideas or alternatives?” Silence. Our head of marketing, Reginald, an old gentleman with over 50 years of experience in his field groaned: “How about,” and at least three of us sighed at once. Reginald was the slowest talker on the planet. When he opened his mouth, time stood still. He continued: “Oil is at an–” “Get to the point Reginald,” flashed Ruby impatiently. “In due time, sugartits,” answered Reginald slowly: “As I was saying,” another sigh echoed around the table: “Oil is at a low. Maybe we should consider this investment.” “How do you get from cars to oil,” protested Simon. Pillock seconded the confusion. Ruby intejected before the old man answered himself: “Well, cars run on gasoline. Gasoline is refined oil.” “Rather, shouldn’t we then invest in the gasoline industry?,” asked Pillock. “No, no, the gasoline industry is doing fine. Oil is not,” answered Simon glacially. “How do any of these investments facilitate the car industry?,” asked Derrik. “Yes,” murmured Pillock and continued: “Neither the gasoline nor oil industry run on cars.” “That… that’s not really the point,” remarked Simon while our head of research and development, Dexter, snorted in derision. Dexter was a young engineer with no practical experience in research and development. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had met the bloke back when Dexter was a student. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags sized Dexter up to me: “There’s a fine young gentleman, if I’ve ever met one. Not a single thought in his head. No ideas. No initiative. Monkey see, monkey do. Exactly what we need for research and development. Have him copy the good ideas from our competitors – and we take no risks. Let them do the risky business and we then do fat cash and success. I like it!” “The problem is not the car industry, but the people reporting on the car industry,” remarked Mr. Greatbigmoneybags’ personal assistant Penny. “Hush girl,” Mr. Greatbigmoneybags interrupted her. She was a pretty young woman. Small, slender and exceptionally beautiful. We all knew the latter quality was the quality that landed her her job. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had plenty of assistants and had no need of a personal assistant. When asked at the last corporate retreat by our then head of research and development Martins, Mr. Greatbigmoneybags had answered: “It’s like this. You’ve an empty spot on the wall. What do you hang there? An ugly piece of shit that’ll make your feel worse every time you glance at it, or a piece of pure beauty that’ll put a skip in your step and a hard cock in your hand? I had an empty desk in front of my office. What’d you do with it?” “But you just had that desk installed,” came the reply. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags fired Martins then and there: “Can’t have that kind of people around the office. Bad for business.” No one questioned his choices of personal assistants since. She was clever, though, no one could deny that. “So what you’re saying is, we should invest in something detrimental to the media coverage?,” asked Pillock. “Obscurring facts and being counterproductive is unethical,” interjected Ruby. “Oy! I told you, I hate that word. That’s two strikes now, Ruby,” warned Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. That was when the herald of the second coming of our lord and saviour entered the office.

A ragged man in raggy clothes entered the office and slammed the door with a bang. “Who the Hell are you?,” started Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “Your Lord and Savior. I have the solution to your problem.” “Aw, bloody Hell, I’ve the head of every organ in the company on this board, but where’s the head of security when you need a brute.” “That’d put us below the 25% female threshold on the board,” interjected Penny. “Right. That’d lose us some government cash. Can’t have that. Get the brute in here. Why can’t the crazy hobos ever be chicks? It’d improve my bottom line.” “My name is Plugg,” began the hobo: “And I’ve been to the Hell and back. And now I come to save you from your salvation.” “What?,” asked Derrik and Dexter in confused unison. “The man’s here to save us, jeez,” explained Pillock. “That’s not what that means,” sighed Dexter. “Sure it is, it’s on wiki,” said Plugg: “Look it up.” “Security!,” called Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. Plugg continued despite the unrest around the table: “It started a week ago, when I was begging at the corner of 1st and Southwest when this girl–” “Did you bring her?,” asked Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “No.” “Damn it, man. Think of my bottom line! If this gets out–” “She dropped her phone,” continued Plugg: “And so I went on the Internet. To Hell and back.” “That’s it?,” asked Dexter. “Yes. I’d nothing else to do, so I browsed the web. I spent a week reading 4chan, reddit, tumblr and countless YouTube comment sections. I come before you, born anew. Back from Hell. And I now understand how this world and life works. I come before you with the answer to life, the universe and everything.” “It’s 42,” sighed Dexter. “How’d you know!?,” protested Plugg. “It’s in a book.” “Book!? That’s some hipster shizz right there. No, your assistant had the better of it. The coverage’s griefing is imba.” “Griefing? Imba?,” asked Reginald. Slowly. “Yeah, it’s harshing your mellows. You have to convince twitter that the emission debate is sexist or racist. Preferably both. Then, you’re back in business.” “No, that’s not how this–,” began Ruby when Pillock interrupted her: “Oh, just entertain the hobo, will you? While we’re waiting for security. Won’t cost us anything.” “Alright,” commented Mr. Greatbigmoneybags: “In that case, let’s hear him out. How much’ll this proposal of yours set us back?” “Social media accounts are free,” answered Plugg. “I like where this is going,” commented Mr. Greatbigmoneybags and beckoned Plugg to continue. “You see, there’s no greater force in this world than hate on social media. Picture this. It’s like a whale in the sky – a sky whale – that, when told something is racist, sexist, ableist, or our Lord forbid, offensive, will fall from the sky and flap violently in the general direction of the issue, but never actually touch the issue itself. Flapping sky whale terror, gentlemen. That’s exactly what you need.” “Huh,” exclaimed Derrik after a pause of silence. “Right,” commented Mr. Greatbigmoneybags: “How’d we go about this?”

“You see, the problem is some cars are lying about emissions. Not because of some Terminator-BS with machines rising up against us, but because the cars were told to lie.” “By who?,” asked Pillock. “Whom,” corrected Reginald and Ruby. “That’s just it. No one knows except internally. And they ain’t talking.” “Do they outsource car production to Asia?,” asked Dexter. “No, sadly, otherwise this’d been an easy case.” The door slammed open and a tall brute burst in: “You called security?” “Took you long enough,” said Mr. Greatbigmoneybags: “This hobo just wandered in. What kind of operation are we running here?” The brute looked at the hagged hobo Plugg: “I’ll take care of it.” “The Hell you will. Look around. We’re eight guys and two chicks in here. If someone was to snap a picture, I’d stand to lose thousands a year in government funding. Get out and get a girl in here. Now!” “Sir?,” asked the confused head of security. “Get out and get a girl in here!,” roared Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “Any girl?,” asked the head of security. “Any girl will do.” As the door shut, Reginald took the word. Slowly: “Well, the Danish government reported the descrepancy in emissions to the European Union over a year ago. No one reacted or cared.” Plugg nodded. “Do anyone else feel ten years older after that comment?,” asked Dexter. Laughs all around. Except Ruby. “Okay, so the car industry is lobbying an anti-Scandinavian agenda. It’s a start, but not really shitstorm material.” “Why not?,” asked Derrik. “Well, there are only six million Danes that may get pissed off. And little more than half of ’em are anti-EU. So you’re looking at three million potential hate mongerers.” “Needs more appeal, then,” nodded Derrik. “We could slap some tits on it,” proposed Reginald. Slowly. He continued: “Maybe a fine ass or two as well.” “That’s pretty sexist,” mumbled Ruby. Plugg budded in: “No it’s not. What you need to understand is that Reginald is old and just a product of his own time.” “What?,” protested Ruby, but found only disagreeing head shakes around the table. She sighed: “Nevermind, go on.” “Hey, I don’t make these rules; the Internet makes the rules,” Plugg consoled but received only a retaliatory scoff. “I think we’d better take an environmentalist approach,” said Plugg: “The most toxic of the hate mongerers are pro-environment no matter what.” A flash of enthutiasm sparked in Plugg’s eyes: “Oh, this is a great idea! Those never fail to piss off the anti-pro-environmentalists.” “What are those?” “People that are against people who are openly pro-enviroment. Technically it’s a bit broader than that. Those people are anti anyone pro-anything.” “I’m confused,” admitted Pillock. Mr. Greatbigmoneybags shot him a disapproving glance.

A girl entered gingerly. “Aw, he sent the ugly black one from HR,” sighed a disappointed Reginald. Slowly. “That’s my assistant,” Pillock reminded the old man. “That was racist and sexist, Reginald,” protested Ruby. Plugg then reminded her once more, why that was not the case. “Sit down, and hush. Try not to listen. If anyone comes in with a camera, smile,” said Mr. Greatbigmoneybags and gestured her towards a chair at the back of the room. Slowly she walked around the table ever so lightly socked Reginald square in the face as she passed by. “That’s sexual harassment, though,” said Plugg. “What!?,” roared Ruby. “No no,” coughed Reginald slowly and chuckled lecherously: “It’s fine. I like it rough.” “Ewwww–,” started Pillock when Plugg interrupted and got back on track: “So, we spin it like this: the industry’s anti-environmentalist and supports the eradication of the rain forest, the bengal tiger and pandas.” “But that’s not true,” defied Ruby. “I’m starting to see a pattern here,” said Plugg. “Yes, quite,” said Mr. Greatbigmoneybags and straightened his tie: “Ruby, be a darling and go fetch us some refills.” “No,” protested Ruby. “Penny, you do it, then.” “No!,” roared Ruby: “Why can’t a man do it?” “Hush, the men are talking big business here and it’s obviously too much for you to keep up with. Get out.” “But then your ratio’d be wrong again.” “Right, right. Take Reginald with you. PR’s nothing to do with marketing campaigns anyway.” The old man and Ruby got up and left the room. Simon took the word: “Right. So we’ve got a campaign strategy. Who’s to take charge?” “I’ll do it,” said Plugg.” “You don’t work here,” protested Mr. Greatbigmoneybags: “I’d have to put you on the payroll. Don’t like the sound of that.” “Well, it was worth a shot,” Plugg nodded, bowed and left the room. “We can finish without him,” said Simon. “Yes. Social media is a recent development, right?,” asked Mr. Greatbigmoneybags. “Yeah,” nodded Dexter and Penny. “Dexter’ll do it, then. He does research and developments. Go do social media. And I want a report on Monday.” Dexter looked confused. Reluctant. Uncomprehending. Then he nodded in agreement: “Got it. I’ll take care of it. Lying cars kill pandas.” Mr. Greatbigmoneybags smiled: “Good. That’ll be all.” Derrik threw me a glance: “And what does the head of quality assurance have to say about all this?”

Let me tell you. The reaction to the campaign was astronmical. The Internet blew up and the hate mongering spread like wild fire. Death threats became a daily, hourly and minutely event. Of course, the real world does not operate by social media rules. Facts eventually emerged. The death threats vanished. The hate turned to reflected affection and empathy. Empathy! Can you believe it? People felt sorry for the undeservably hate-ridden poor sods. No one cared about our campagin. No one cared about us. Sure, the stocks took an initial blow. But what is dead may never die, but rises again with greater profit to the shareholders. I guess this was a kind of Stockholm-syndrome: feeling sorry for the needlessly scorned. And needless scorn is easy to come by on the social media, it seems. And it was this crazy hobo that had us embrace the eighth wonder of the world: Social media. None of us even saw Plugg again. Then again no one cared to look for him. Anyway, this year I celebrate the hobo that opened our eyes and saved us from a potential slight financial loss. Cheers for the free hate-mongering jackasses on social media that allow themselves to be goated and manipulated without thought: the best development in marketing and campaigning in the history of the World. And it is absolutely free. Thanks guys! As Mr. Greatbigmoneybags would say: “I like the sound of that.”

Its the time of year to thrill and amuse!

Its the time of year to thrill and amuse!

Games! Board Games! Video Games! Keeping kids and adults enthralled in story and play. For centuries people have all been keeping themselves amused with games. Over the years there was  a sinus wave of popularity when a great game came out but also classics keep on existing. To the arsenal of board games also video games were added. A new frontier in game play, immersive, vivid and so much fun.

Whether its luck or strategy, we all look for something in a new game.

But have you ever had an idea for a board game or video game? I know I did, as a kid I created alternative ways to play Monopoly and created new rules for existing games. A bit older I even created my own paper game, a bit like a game of the goose. When I started studying Applied Informatics my programming languages gave me a whole new toolbox in creating fun little puzzle games. But further than some tries I never got until now… Now I might actually contribute to a game that sounds AMAZEBALLS!

We are all feeling the run up to Halloween, pumpkins are appearing left, right and centre and scary movies are the talk of the town.  So in my search of a good list of movies for a Halloween Evening Get together I found an opportunity! A chance to be part of gaming history, and charitable as I am I wanted to share it with you guys.

Now imagine a multi-player game with a horror theme. You might say not hard there is a plethora of them out there already…

But this one has 1 player as Jason Vonhees, yes yes Friday the 13th Jason with the hockey mask, the terror of my teens, the scare of Hollywood scary movie classics and the other seven players try to survive an evening at Camp Crystal Lake. This game could become reality with some help from the game playing fans.

Friday the 13th
Oh Jason…

But how? You probably all heard of the phenomenon KickStarter, there has been good and bad reporting on it but overall my opinion is that this platform has given many good ideas a way to get to market without one person bankrupting themselves on a shot.

If you think, ‘I need this in my life!’, check out this link.

We are living in amazing times, that allow us to get things created even without the help of giant publishers.  Lets all cherish this and enjoy all them games not only the classics but also the tiny game producers.

You might not have the ambition to be a game creator, but if you are into a gaming experience I would really want to push you to go and look for the little independent games. There are many gems out there.

This is it for me this month, keep your eyes and ears open and to end with a quote from Friday the 13th:

“You kids keep your noses clean, you understand? You’ll be hearing from me if you don’t. We ain’t gonna stand for any weirdness out here.” — Officer Dorf

GP by GP – Family Game Night

GP by GP – Family Game Night

Usually the horror of family game night would be a teeth pulling event of finding something to bond over in the hopes that the family would improve their connection and learn more about each other in the course of this riddling event of snakes and bladders. Instead of fighting to get first to a arbitrary goal in the series of sporadic luck, we have created a common goal for what we would like to achieve by having such game night events. Parents and children alike are working towards improving our knowledge and the hunt for pointless trivia has rendered this tedious task into a outlet of daily life quest for knowledge. Every time we find something to play (well every time I am playing with them anyway) it has been in some shape of trivial pursuit. You move forward in the game and in the world generally by knowledge. It might be tedious and unusable to say the least, but it is knowledge and the personal preparation, by keeping your mind and ears open in the daily life.

I will quickly add that there is the random event of Yathzee at times for the sake of mindless action while talking about life or just something to do to survive the drudges of mind-melting television, but I rarely participate and it creates a feeling of disconnection. My family is made (in my mind) of 4 rings. The center ring for me is my parents, my brother and me. It is that core that I feel everything revolves around. Not in a narcissistic manner, but more a “If this works, then everything else can go to hell for all I care” kind of way.

Back to the regular scheduled show. If we take any kind of game, we will see in its core that is has nothing else to do that being the smartest ass possible. I seldom win in these “competitions” as I usually get the wonderful chances to tell everyone about the political screenwriter that won a Nobel prize in writing books before Gutenberg were even born. Always with the African leaders or the ancient political figures that changed the arrangement of pebbles on a beach just west of Madagascar.

The difference here with having a game that requires that you know the world, instead of dumb luck is a freeing experience for me. I can’t be angry that I lost since there is no silly chance that would make it unfair for everyone. It is purely a channelization of skill and memory. If I don’t know the answer is has nothing to do with my opponents or the game. You can always be angry when someone else gets a question you know the answer too and maybe even enjoy to see them squirm when you are ready with the punchline that will make everyone burst out in orgasmic exaltation or maybe just table wide smirks.

After years of perfecting this sometimes rare event in my family, we’ve tried so many variations and so many countless iterations of the knowledge seeking game. It has been enjoyable and we can truly say that we still enjoy it immensely, even though there is only one winner on the board, it is one of the rare occasions where even the losing players are feeling some form of satisfaction.

Reflections: A Hard Sell

I see you in the bottom right corner of my screen. And for the umpteenth time I banish you. No, I do not want to upgrade to Windows 10, no matter how much you are shoving “It’s free!,” into my face. I do not care.

It may be that the blatant cash-grab model of “Free 2 Play” – or “Fee 2 Pay” depending how you look at it – has jaded me over the past few years, and you may call me an ungrateful jackass. I do not mind. And I do not care. I have a setup on Windows 8. I finally got used to its Xbox-wannabe interface and so far I have had no issues with it. The games I play work on Windows 8. The editing and music software I use works on Windows 8.

Tell me, how is upgrading my OS – even if it is free – a good idea when everything works perfectly and smoothly? I do not see a gain here. I see a risk. And I am not going to play Russian roulette with an as-perfect-as-I-can-conceive computer setup.

It may cost me nothing, but what is in it for me?

The answer is “benefits down the road,” but that rubs me the wrong way. The upgrade is not going to stay free forever. Why is the massive corporation attempting to lure people in with promises yet to be fulfilled? Colour me jaded, but every alarm bell inside my head is ringing.

So, thanks to Microsoft for the offer, but I think I would rather cough up the cash when there is something tangible in it for me – not just vague promises of sunshine, lollipops and rainbows… eventually.

Syrian is the new Orange

Syrian is the new Orange

Recently I have watched a couple of documentaries that are part of a season that the BBC are running on racism in the modern day. Very few of the opinions expressed referred to skin colour (other than in the one on the KKK). Some were (mainly in the one on the KKK.  They do seem to have an issue with those of duskier skin tones). But almost always they were followed up by references to the belief system that their chosen ethnic group subscribes to. And generally (but not exclusively) they turned out to be Muslims… apparently.

In my youth it was blacks being picked on by whites. If you weren’t white you were black.

Then there was a bit of differentiation. All were equally hated by the racists in general. But there were off-shoots of bigotry. Hatred seemed to be based upon a Dulux colour matching card, with limited hues.

‘These three or four shades are ok. These five or six are “Paki’s”. We hate them cos they are “Paki’s”. The rest of them are “Darkies”. We hate them cos… um… we always have.’

Back in the good old day’s racism was so much simpler. You could be a bigoted hatemonger without too much thought, and a handy, pocket sized, colour swatch.

But modern times bought us different religions and cultures. And you can’t colour code a religion. Now as an “upright member of society, who doesn’t mean anyone any harm to anyone. But just feels that Britain should be for the British” things are getting tricky.  ‘Culture’ seems to be the new buzz word.



‘Ok, you are black. I mean properly black. But you are third generation British. And you agree that Britain should be for British people. But you’re black, and your British…

And you… you’re a Pa… oh, Indian. There is a difference? Ok. And you are fourth generation British.

This is not good. It is undermining my fundamental beliefs…  Oh, right… Culture.  Your culture isn’t ours.  We’ll go with that.’


Let’s gloss over the fact that our culture is a mix of French, Scandanavian and pretty much anyone who moved in during the middle ages.  And that our nations culture has been fluid and changing… well, for ever.  Cos that is what culture does.


This is where your average racist gets confused and goes one of four ways.

Way 1 – Stick to yer guns.

“They ain’t white so I hate em”. Some things and some people never change. Hell, let’s face it… Change is bad. We fear change. Sod change, let’s stick with what we know. It’s easier than thinking.


Way 2 – Switch targets.

“Britain is for the British! Not quite sure who is proper British anymore. But I know who the fuck isn’t. IMIGRANTS!!!! I hate them. Oh, and Muslims!  They blow shit up!”. Change is bad. We fear change. The politicians and the papers are telling me that the immigrants are changing things. They must be right cos I have seen change. My Auntie doesn’t get the nurse coming round like she used to. My sisters kids day care is gone. The hospital is about to close it’s A&E department. It’s the immigrants, right?  Oh, and the bloody Muslims!


Way 3 – Diversify.

“I fuckin’ hate immigrants. But I still hate everyone I already hated. In fact I hate everyone who isn’t either me or one of my family. And I hate some of them.  But if you don’t completly abandon the heritage and culture of your forefathers and embrace that of mine, (who may or may not have also moved here at some point…  But did it before yours, so stop trying to confuse me!!!)  I will hate you! Oh, and the Muslims!  Everyone hates them, right?  But I might hate them less if they stopped blowing shit up”. You don’t have to give up yer old hobbies when you get a new one.


Way 4 – Start to think for yourself.

I know a couple of people that were neo-nazis. Swastika tattoos and everything.  By everthing, I mean the belief and the activism…

Then they fell in with a different crowd (They didn’t just trip over something.  It took thought, effort, sacrifice and huge balls to take the first step.  And the next two or three!  I don’t wanna cheapen what they did.)  They looked back at what they thought and did, and decided that it wasn’t the way they wanted to live their lives. They blacked over the tatoos (with more ink, obviously) chilled out and have had pretty lovely lives since (with the usual life shit, anyway.  It just involved less violence).  They are good people.

I say this like it is a panacea for racism. It is not. Racism would not exist if someone hadn’t thought of it for themself. But almost all bigotry these days is because of people who can’t be arsed to think for themselves.  They choose to believe the words of someone charismatic enough to sound like they know what they are talking about.  Those that spout the words that feed into the peoples fears.


Why the charismatic one is spouting bigotry is open for argument. Maybe they just want the feeling of power of having a following, and have spotted a trigger point to get this. Maybe they just talk a lot about anything, but found that people listened to this. They like it when people listen. Maybe they actually believe it.  (Please note –  Not all charismatic people spout bigotry. Some spout capitalism, communism, healty eating…  And some spout no agenda’s at all)

Syrian 1


But apparantly these people are currently the greatest threat to my nation and my way of life.

Yes, when I look at images like this my first thought is to feel threatened.




Shit… I’m not even going to say that bigotry and racism are wrong. I personally believe that they are. But who am I to say that my opinion is any more valid or correct the next peson.

That said… If I see it happening before me, I will step in to express my point of view. And as a cripple, I always carry a stick. A stick can be helpful in getting your point across when properly applied.


A simple guide for modern UK racists

If they look foreign they are probably Muslims. Hate them. If they sound foreign they are probably Syrian immigrants. Hate them. If they both look and sound foreign, fill yer boots.

Don’t bother talking to them. It is so much more fun hurling abuse and then going home feeling good that you were standing up for your nation and nationality. Tell your friends about it and let them share your national pride.

Vote UKIP. (They aren’t racists either… Honest)



Yeah, I failed on the months theme again.  Does that make me a bad person?


[Oh, and if you are confused about the hamster pic…  It’s an Orange Syrian.  And yes…  If I’d put more time into it I could probably have found one without the stock photo shit all over it.  But I spent hours typing, editing… drinking. Suck it up.  You want better?  Tap the boss for a slot and step up.  Are you not at all impressed that I found a pic to tie a glib title to the topic…  And it’s cute]

[But seriously.  If you got it… step up (in a welcoming way).  What’s the worst that could happen?]

I Don’t Believe: Karma

I Don’t Believe: Karma

Karma FrogOnly the good die young. Crime doesn’t pay. You reap what you sow. Good things happen to good people.

I believe all of these things (which is a little depressing… cos that means that most old people are bad).

I have been a contributor to WBOM since it began. I am proud to be so. I am invested and passionate about all of us providing entertaining, intellectual and quality BLOGs for the enjoyment of everyone who accidentally stumbles across our path.

But I feel that this is the first time that a monthly subject… um… topic… er… What do we call it? Ok, I confess. I’m easily confused. And I rarely actually check what I’m supposed to be talking about. Generally I just type shit and then try and crowbar in some kind of connection. (People who repeatedly accidentally stumble across us will know that, on my part… I’m not great at this).  Anyway…  I think it is bad.

But this time I am prepared. I am organised. I am seriously late in getting this post up. But most importantly, I feel that this month’s theme is both negative and the opposite of un-negative (I mentioned that I was late, right. If I wasn’t I would have waded through online Thesauruses… um… Thesauri… and sparkled more in that latter part of the previous sentence).

The point that I am staggering around is that it is easy to ‘not believe’. There so many things to not believe in…

The Boogey Man, honest politicians, God, #SPOILER# Santa, the love of a good man, the love of a good woman, the existence of a good man/woman (yes, I am an equal opportunities cynical sceptic), that smoking will not only make you live longer, but will also make you attractive to women.

There are many, many more. But listing them all would only belabour the point I am arguing against.

There are very few that we are told to believe in…

We actually do have enough of a chance to win the lottery that it is worth is paying our hard earned cash to take part… And, um… Orange is the new black? I already told you that I’m up against it on time. The deadline went days ago!

But seriously, I got nothing more on this side.

OOH! Hang on. Wine makes you live longer! Who could not believe the French? Of course they are not using unsupportable statistics to cover up a national drinking problem, sustain one of their major exports and incidentally justify my love of the grapey joy juice.

My arguments may be weak, but my idiom is ironclad. It is way easier to not believe than it is to believe. Put the effort in. It’s worth it. You may well be wrong more often than your not. But if you sincerely believe, then you will have the smug satisfaction that you are both happy and right… and empirical proof cannot dent your joy.

So I say YAY to unicorns, YAY to love at first sight, YAY to the belief that my dog will stop chewing my socks, YAY to the belief that if you hug kittens and homeless people that you will come back in your next life as the sweetest, juiciest pumpkin EVER!

[Note 1 : Creationists… Give it up. I’m talking about belief. Not complete fantasy]

[Note 2 : Thank you for overlooking my use of the word ‘idiom’ where I really shouldn’t. You may claim that you didn’t… But I BELIEVE that you did!]

[Note 3 : What do you mean I mixed up Karma and Reincarnation??!! And who wouldn’t want to come back as one of the tastiest pumpkins ever!!! I believe that I got it right! And if I didn’t, the title would make absolutely no sense. So I must have got it right.]

[Note 4 : Most of the world may think you’re a complete and total cock, Justin. But I think I just proved that I’ll pretty much belibe anything.]

Karma Bieber