Grown Up Gossip & Internet Villainy
Product placement has become the bane of moviegoers lives. Nowadays you’re never sure if what you’re seeing is the choice of the director, or of the producer or the marketing girl named Joan who’s managed to wangle a deal with Motorola to make sure that the movie star’s mobile phone is provided by the company.
Sadly, that’s how our world is nowadays. We’re supercapitalist in every way, even if it means compromising the quality of movies. And James Bond is no different.
What kind of monster empathises with animals? Is it because they’ve got the same colour blood as us? In fact, there’s people out there who have more sympathy for animals than they do people from different cultures.
Humans are stupid and this is proven by the need for them to have animals as pets.
Think about it. There’s people in this awful world that like nothing more than staring at silent fish in a tank. There’s people out there who like to dress their dogs up like little humans. There’s even people who think that cats are anything other than selfish, greedy snobs who only cohabit with humans to get an easy feed.
There has been the vague, wet, typical outpouring of mild-ire surrounding an indie band allowing one of their songs to be used in advertising. It’s ‘selling-out’ apparently. And god knows, that’s the worst thing an indie band can be accused of, right?
And of course, there’s a terribly saccharine John Lewis advertisement that’s doing the Christmas rounds this year which features a cover version of The Smiths’ ‘Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want’.
Johnny Marr is at pains to point out that the song featuring in a commercial doesn’t sully the memory of the song at all and The Smiths haven’t sold out, actually. And you know something, he’s right to say that it doesn’t sully the memory of the band.
Winners. Who needs ’em? Winners are the biggest pains in the rump, ever. They strut around with their winning medals, their certificates of achievement, their degrees, their neat handwriting and, most importantly, a complete absence on personality.
See, if you’re the kind of person who devotes themselves to winning and excellence, then chances are, you’ve no friends.
That’s because everyone ultimately loves a loser. That’s because there’s more losers than there are winners. And yet, such importance is put on coming first, that the glorious last-placer has to define themselves by other things. Brilliant things.
Ladies. When you’re feeling frisky, should the mood take you, you can impress the object of your affections by donning your nicest underwear. It even has a special, sexy sounding name – lingerie.
There’s fancy bras, stockings, corsets, see-through nighties, peep-hole this, assless-that… it’s a cavalcade of things designed to let people know you’re in the mood and feel wonderful.
And what do men have? Underpants and socks.
Small people are just weird aren’t they? What happened to them in the womb to make them so abjectly tiny? Could they simply not be bothered to ingest the nutrients their mother gave them?
Randy Newman had it right when he sang: “Short people got no reason to live”, pointing out their “tiny little teeth” and their penchant for wearing “platform shoes on their nasty little feet.”
You have to “pick ’em up just to say hello”. So what’s the point of them?
Science is a confusing beast. In the pro-column, it gave us the internet, space travel and video games… but in the con-column, it gave us bombs, animal-testing and sentient Glade air-fresheners.
Sadly for science, for every likeable kook like Einstein, there’s a sanctimonious swine or a million tripping over themselves to bray like sarcastic mules about a whole host of topics.
The worst thing to talk to science-nuts about is God. Yeah, the supposed creator. Science will stand by its Large Hadron Collider, make absolutely no ‘Large Hard-On Collider’ jokes and moo about God not existing.
Who goes on dates? What’s the point of them at all? Dates are just willingly putting yourself before a one-person jury, being prodded and poked at while you pull at your collar, sweat profusely and babble on inanely with your cripplingly awful anecdotes.
The fact is, if someone agrees to see you again after the way you act on a first date, then you know for certain that they’re an idiot.
Only a complete simpleton could fall for you while you thrash around in an unyielding and stressful situation. It’s less an exercise in love, and more akin to seeing what you’d be like if you were taken hostage.
Language. What a stupid thing for humans to design. Sure, it can be beautiful and breathtakingly powerful… but let us be honest here: for the most part, it feels misused, redundant, stupid and utterly misunderstood.
Take one look at absolutely any social networking site and you’ll see that people just don’t give two hoots about language, where punctuation has been replaced with pointless laughter. Seriously. Have you noticed?
It started with LOL and currently resides in an awkward ‘ahah‘.
People who exercise are sickening. People who have gym memberships should be flogged in public. We’d do it but we’d get a thousand stitches trying to catch them and, when we finally did, we’d be too tired to raise our hand to successfully thrash them. Good thing some lazy oaf invented guns.
Exercisers spend so much time running on the spot to attain so body ideal (that they’ll never, ever attain), that they miss the world around them. They run and run, without ever moving forward. Sure, they’ll develop abs… but that is always overshadowed by their pious attitude to the lovely, nourish tubby gut.
And yet, gym bunnies feel like they are maximising their potential. They’re not. They’re performing seals for men in vomit inducing lycra who have hoodwinked a world that we indeed, need a building where aerobics is the name used to cover up what is ostensibly yuppie bulimia.
