Leaky Cornhole

We're like skirting board you know? We exist, but there's really no reason for us at all. We're just the sorry conclusion of evolution so far; four billion years worth. Four Billion years! Fuck me it's tragic.

After a length of time that is completely incomprehensible, you would have thought nature could muster together something, anything, better than us. We plod around; sour faced, self-absorbed shit tanks, crawling from one disappointment to another with nothing but abject piffle to fill the vast, black chasms between.

Talking of vast, black chasms, i saw an arse that could advertise scurvy this week. In fact, this is the kind of gruesome imagery that you can expect to enjoy every week, courtesy of Channel 4's "Embarrassing Bodies". Each episode focuses on ten or so people who have life-stalling problems with their bodies, and allows us to delve deep into the most graphic and personal of details....or their arse. They each come to the team of doctors to seek advice about the embarrassing illness which befalls them, and in the process, we, the vultures of misfortune, get to feed off their personal anguish. It's got everything we want, doesn't it? We get to gawp at illnesses that are as cruel as an assault in a piss stained alley, but we also get to rejoice as they embark on their remarkable yet inevitable recovery. It's a viewers dream; shocking but thrilling images, raising of your self esteem, and joyous closure; it's like sex with a leprechaun.

Often the patients tell us they are too embarrassed about their body to change in front of their partner, or to visit their doctor without a screwdriver in case they have to gauge his eyeballs out to stop him screaming at their grotesque disfigurement. Why then, do they see national TV as the most confidential, incognito path to a cure? If their abominable illness wasn't enough, and being paraded around on national TV didn't ensure full and categorical abasement, the juxtaposition between the repugnant illnesses and the fully made up, radiant doctors makes certain that they are the most embarrassed that they could possibly be, ever. The title lends itself to reinforcing the shame too, it should be renamed, how about 'shit bodies' or 'let's stare at people with really unfortunate anatomy'?

If i have a shitting problem, the last person i want poking around with my grey, leaky cornhole is an attractive female doctor who looks like she just fell out of heat magazine. I want a down-trodden, bearded old man whose face is on a similar level to that of my infected arse.

Another baffling notion is why it has taken so long for so many to get so much that was so desperately needed. Too often are my ears caressed with 'i've been shitting blood for 5 years now' or 'i've had a gargantuan puss head for 17 years now'. Why has it taken them so long to realise there is a broad misfire occurring?

The programme is positively graphic with very little filter for anything taboo, from arseholes to bellends, you'll witness it all. I'm not complaining though; i'm a misogynist just like the next man. Just like you. sicko.

I suppose i had better be thankful that i am one of those shit tanks, plodding around with my sour face; that's all that keeps me from being one of those poor bastards that you see on TV, you know, the ones with the shit bodies?

Word Search

I hate times like these. I'm sat in my boxers with cheap baked bean sauce plastered around the sides of my mouth, wondering what it is that keeps people watching 'The Jeremy Kyle Show'. The show is frustratingly consistent. There are only ever two types of willing participants; gaunt, weathered, anemic alcoholics who look like they've been startled by a fire alarm, or obscenely over-weight alcoholics that look like bits of old fart putty by the time they reach the stage. All of the livestock are northern, and they all have mouths like a diseased vagina. Surely people this ugly are bound within the confines of mythical fabrication?

These fine examples of non-sentient life have come to the oracle because they believe he can mop up the hurricane of piss that materialises itself as their life. What actually happens, is he jizzes their lives yet further up the wall of self perpetuating plight. Arguments ensue, hatred is bred and relations breakdown further until Kyle bravely brings things round to a well balanced and valuable conclusion in which he voices the reasons for why his life is worth living, whilst our contestant's lives are not. I dislike Jeremy Kyle as much as i presume he dislikes himself, the narcissistic, gormless little turd.

What's apocalyptically depressing is that 'The Jeremy Kyle Show' might only be the second most insufferable scheme in the history of the television. The last time i was left sitting in my boxers undergoing puzzlement of considerable magnitude, i had just witnessed the 'adopt a word' advert. The company auctions off words and then puts the proceeds into charities that help children with communication difficulties. A noble cause, i think we'd all agree. The notion behind this cause, however, is as disconcerting as handing over your child to Willy Wonka and his delightfully off beat yet sinister character. My already fractious nature battles hard against surrealism and confusion to understand what they are actually selling me here. Let's explore the series of problems that should have prevented such a well-intended yet tragic farce.

Words are not things you can own, store away from others and lock selfishly in your closet. To adopt a word is to adopt nothing at all, it gives you no rights concerning that word and makes it no more exclusive for others. It would be synonymous with adopting the colour yellow or adopting clouds or adopting something else that is out side material reality and common sense.

Also thrown upon the ever-growing pile of burning carcasses is the issue of who gave this company the right to auction off what is not theirs. Who gave them the right to deny the freedoms of literature and of speech, to wave the flag of linguistic oppression so freely? Even if you could break the chains of logic and adopt words, they are not the authority from which i would do so, they are merely cowboys, highwaymen, frauds; they have just stolen these words and are selling them back to the rightful owners through bribery!

Away from the hyperboley, there also seems to be a logical inconsistency within this companies blueprints. If they argue that there is some supplementary experience to be gained from adopting a word, that you have more rights over that words than anyone else, then they are making words exclusive and thus going violently off message; if i wanted to help a child communicate, the last thing i would do, short of tearing their eyes out, is adopt words and limit further their vocabulary. If they admit that this is not the case, that their intention is not to make words exclusive, then they implicitly admit that adopting words is a cavernous hollow, a vacuous black hole, negative matter. They accept that you gain nothing out of doing it and that this whole idea is a big pile of shit. Nothing more.

I do want to get dressed you know, it's just the thought of the Jeremy Kyle show, and now this advert, it tumbles me into immobilising despair...that and I've got a to-do list longer than a prog-rock song. Still, i'm off to wipe my arse on pictures of Kyle and slip into something more comfortable, preferably a coma.

Cult Fiction: The 30 Second Smackdown

Many think that the ancient conflict between science and religion cannot be solved and that any attempt to do so is a meaningless exercise. Not only is it not meaningless, but it is finite; there is a right answer. As reason continues to headbutt the wall, with not much more than a neck now after thousands of years, it is time to make it undeniably plain. Consider this the Atomic power. The smackdown.

If you have greater cognitive ability than a chimp, or Kerry Katona, the delivery of this series of logical facts should leave a Christian speechless and his beliefs groundless in about 30 seconds flat. Got your timer ready? Go.!

Jesus states in the Bible (the unquestionable word of God) that he will return for the second coming within the lifespan of his disciples. We know that they are dead and this has not happened. This leaves us with four possible options:

• One, the Bible recorded it wrong and thus can no longer be considered the infallible word of God. All within it must be disregarded. Christianity: Destroyed
• Two, Jesus was wrong about his second coming and therefore is not an infallible, perfect being. Christianity: Destroyed.
• Three, Jesus had the audacity to lie and therefore is not an infallible, perfect being. Christianity: Destroyed.
• Four, the entire claim is made up, and thus the Bible can no longer be regarded as the infallible word of God. Christianity: Destroyed.

This is the question has plagued reason for Milena. Within 30 seconds the opposition is forced onto the back foot and very almost onto the floor.

Whilst this should have convinced you, perhaps it did not. Let's try one more...Reset the timer for another round of 30 seconds yet? Go!

We know the speed of light; we can measure it exactly (299,792,458 metres per second), and we have measures such as redshift and parallax to know the approximate location of distant stars. We can then, from this, say it took a certain number of years for light from stars to reach the observing telescope (distance of the star divided by the distance light can transverse in one year).

If the Stars were created on the fourth day like the word of God profoundly states, making them about 6,000 years old, many of the stars that we are able see in the night's sky would not yet be visable to us since the light could not have possibly reached earth. Stars must be at least as old as the time it took their light to reach us from their previously measured distance. A star ten billion light years away would be ten billion years old. Christianity: Destroyed.

Remarkably, these obtuse blunders are riddled throughout God's divine word. Here i have ruthlessly dragged forth from the black just two, simply to show how easy it is to deconstruct the alleged 'good book' and it's readers beliefs. Whilst i could sit here are spill essays worth of these logical transgressions, i feel i should do something a little more challenging; such as playing a sock at battleships.

Whomping Willow

Whilst i knew 'bad things' are supposed to come in threes, i did not realise it applied to the diabolically shit also. At a time when music seems to be straight-jacketed down and banged up in a cellar somewhere, Will Smith's daughter seized the opportunity to break into the perpetual corruptness that came to replace it.

The song itself is nothing but exquisite agony. It's much like a fire alarm; piercing and unrelenting. The same seven words are sung in a high pitched synthetic cycle until you are left dribbling on the floor with your nerves destroyed. Strike one then; the song is terrible, even by 2011's depressingly low standards.

Perhaps it's lyrical prowess will make up for it, delivering poetry and beauty in equal measure. Then again perhaps not. What are those seven words then? "i whip my hair back and forth". Not only are seven words repeated over and over like an air raid siren, the words are completely meaningless. Quite frankly, i don't believe for one second she whips her hair back and forth, no one does, because it's mental. It's a mental thing to do. There are countless things she does, trivial as they may be, but at least if she sung about them she wouldn't be lying, or sound insane. strike two, the song is meaningless debris, not even worth singing for the sake of singing.

Her father, Will Smith, is as good as a household name. He has worked hard at everything he has achieved and has done it all himself. His career has been an inspirational journey, full of determination, and now he stands that bit taller than the rest. This song, however, is a big black mark against his otherwise faultless name. Firstly, Smith admits how meticulous he is about his work, with anything with his name on it. Why then has he allowed this musical disaster to be created, aired and branded with his name? For a man whose music career was below par, you might expect him to have some say in his daughter's, to make certain that this time, it was perfection. Secondly, she is ten. Ten years old. Ten years of age. I don't think it is particularly acceptable to have her dancing around 'whipping her hair back and forth', dressed like she's straight out of Compton to music that is associated with fat, sweaty buffoons rubbing their disgusting bodies up against some helpless girl. It's a mature sounding song, played in clubs, not discos.

It is not as if the Smith empire are struggling for money. I struggle to fathom why he didn't say no, not yet. Why not foster her singing for a few more years, until she reaches sixteen, and then unleash her? By that time she'll be a better singer, she'll understand more about life and music, and she won't be remembered for this monotonous offal.

Something Equally As Silly

After another installment of 'Cult Fiction', a post with a more straight faced expression, i think its high time i return to spilling my pretentious and miserable outlook onto a page, an outlook concerning how i disagree with the efficiency of how a dog drinks, or something equally as silly.

I'll tell you what's silly. A half ton human. That's what. 'Half a ton' should never, ever be an adjective for a human. Ever.

Channel 4 strikes again, unveiling this time Patrick Deuel, all 76 stone of him. Like all channel 4 documentaries, 'Half Ton Man' throws down facts, images and comparisons as if each were well calculated blows from an eloquently forged katana.

For some perspective, Deuel could not lie on his back because he would drown in himself. Again, 'drown' and 'himself' should never be separated by just the word 'in'. It was revealed that his best suited mode of transport (out of where his windows used to be) was a fork-lift truck designed for transporting killer whales. What took me back yet further was that for a man who was clearly a burden to society, who manifested his own transformation into sludge, he was amazingly stubborn, rude in fact. His poor wife....yes wife... was asked why she didn't just allow him access to healthy foods, or limited foods. Whilst she stood there like a simpering cocktail sausage, he threw himself into the question; "Oh I'll rip you to shreds if you don't let me do something, it's how i am". I found this remark similar to if a man with no legs threatened to 'hunt me down', i would fancy my chances, very much so. He later lectured the camera man about how his extra weight was product of a genetic disposition and not due to over-eating. As he said this, the camera scanned the background filled with pizza boxes, burger trays and sodas, food just hanging off every surface, it was like a man pleading for innocence whilst still bludgeoning his victim to death with his own daughter. Like many of today's bastard claims, science came riding in with its golden armour and slashed his odious lie to the ground; "he'd need to eat 15,000 calories a day in order to maintain the weight of 76 stone".

To lose weight you might expect an individual to be strong willed, sensible, organised and active. Deuel is none of these things and less, but he has lost over 40 stone. He's doing it with a finger up at all diets that have ever been thought of. He had an operation to vastly decrease the size of his stomach, and as a result, he can't not lose weight. After losing 9 stone (from 44 to 37), he came home and celebrated with a whole bucket of the colonels finest, chips, beans, chicken dippers, a packet of salt and vinegar and cheese bites.

This man is smiling at death, calling it a wanker with one hand whilst shovelling fistfuls of gruel into his mouth with the other. I'd describe the paradox as beauty. In fact I'll raise my 'beauty' to sumptuous. Human science providing a cure for the almost incurable in aid of a man who possesses less wit than a battered chicken leg. But since the last post focused on a paradox, i will turn this on its head. His body is quite simply a masterpiece. Despite the constant artillery of fried food smashing down upon it, the reoccurring blows of cholesterol on his arteries and the daily prospect of supplying an 8-foot wide human, his heart has still not given in. A biological miracle inside a biological disaster.

In recognition of the John Mclean of hearts.