Learn Some Fucking Manners!

It’s rude, so very rude, to post on someone’s website without permission.

It is exceptionally rude to use someone else’s website as a way to advertise your fucking bullshit weight loss scam, making the fucking owner have to log in, change his fucking password, and delete your fucking shit smeared blog spam from the face of the Internet at large.

Go fuck your face with your ass you motherfucking pus-laden piece of fucking smegma. I fucking hate you.

Oh, I’m back, bitches!

Later this month, I’ll be traveling to see my favorite band of all time perform a concert in New York City. Of course, rarely can I go to see a concert without some rude motherfucker, or more often, whole groups of motherfuckers, acting generally retarded and making shit difficult. Not that this will work, but I have prepared a short list of rules for basic concert etiquette. If one of you fuckshits reads it and realizes that making an ass of yourself and being a pain to the rest of the crowd, and the band, is not a good thing, well, I won’t feel better, but my experience will be oh so slightly improved. Shut the fuck up and read.

1. Do not mosh or slamdance at a show where people aren’t going to mosh or slamdance! Little pisses me off more than when I’m at a show and some assholes decide to open up a big fucking moshpit or slamdance with each other. Thankfully, I avoid shows where that shit is expected, but that sure hasn’t stopped people from trying it at shows where that shit isn’t kosher. Here’s a hint: if the majority of the crowd is doing the “pogo,” “the standing still,” or “the fishstick,” or if the median age leans towards 40, don’t fucking slamdance or mosh. By the by, a good friend of mine had her fucking knee taken out at a show by an idiot mosher. She wasn’t in the pit—she was at the barrier watching the fucking band. It happened two years ago and her knee will never fully heal. This shit is what happens when you act like a tard in a crowd of normals: you hurt people. Actions have consequences.

2. Stop fucking crowdsurfing. I mean it. I like to be up close to the stage when I see a show. It’s a personal preference. The downside to being there is that at almost every show over a certain fucking size, you have to deal with self-centered pricks who crowdsurf—and they always end up coming over my fucking head! For one, it shows that you don’t actually give a fuck about the concert, because every time I’ve seen someone crowdsurf to the front of the stage, the security people grab them and chuck them the fuck out of the venue. Congrats, dipshit, you spent $50 on a ticket and only saw a third of the show, while being a pain in the ass to those of us who want to actually enjoy the performance. This same shit goes for stagedivers. Stagedivers are even bigger fucktards, because they want to make the show about them. Which brings me to rule number 3.

3. Do not, ever, fucking goddamn ever, fuck with the motherfucking band on stage! There’s a wonderful story about the guitarist for the band I am seeing. At one performance, right before his guitar solo in a song, a “fan” reached out from the audience to grab his ankle. This audience member got to enjoy a nice nap for the rest of the show as the guitar player’s size 8C boot carefully smashed into the fucker’s forehead. The moral of this story: do not fuck with the band. I mean, for fuck’s sake, you paid good money to go see these people! They’re up on stage, presumably working their fucking asses off to entertain you. What the fuck gives you the fucking right to make their job harder? If a band sucks, there’s ways to let them know, but you do not interfere with their job.

4. Do not rush the stage, particularly in a crowded venue. Last time I saw this band, it was at a very small club. As soon as the first note rang out, everyone was shoving and pushing forward. As stated previously, I like to be up front. This resulted in me nearly having my fucking sternum snapped against the barrier. Christ, where the fuck are you going to go? Where the fuck are the people in front of you going to go? Why don’t you show some fucking respect for the people around you, huh?

That last question is the fucking crux of the biscuit here. If you just show some motherfucking respect for your fellow concert goers, then you make the entire fucking experience better for everyone. A rock show is not an excuse for you to act like a fucking animal, so fucking don’t.

Recently, I had the extreme displeasure of dealing with a clueless woman’s bratty, hyperactive hellspawn on a recent trip to the grocery store. Oddly, I don’t run into this shit too often. The worst it usually gets is one loud, crying baby or toddler, maybe two on a bad day. I suppose I’m goddamn lucky in that regard. Of course, that sort of luck makes the egregiousness of this woman’s fucking cunt-droppings all the more aggravating. I should have known I was in for trouble when I walked into the store and saw one of the little shits pushing a cart, at top speed, into a display of stuffed animals. Now, I have been known to exaggerate for comedic, or dramatic effect, but I am not making a word of that previous sentence up. Where was the kid’s mother? At the time, I couldn’t tell, but I knew my grocery store trip was going to be painful, no matter how fast I went, and sure enough, the stupid cow of a mother and her wastes of genetic material were causing drama in the self-checkout. When I confronted her on her idiocy, she stared back at me the way a deer would stare into oncoming headlights, and said “It’s hard.”

At the risk of channelling Maddox, I told her that my parents would beat the crap out of me if I was pulling that shit. This is an exaggeration, but I know my parents, and any parent who has even one brain cell, would grab their spawn by the arm, and make them behave in one form or another. Your shitstain of a kid smashes a cart into a display of toys, you make them pick that shit up. It’s simple. It’s effective. You are a fucking parent, ergo, you fucking parent your fucking kids. If you don’t make your kids realize their actions have consequences, if you just kiss their ass aid praise them, you end up with adults who can’t fucking function in the real world.

Adults, by the way, who can’t function in the real world serve as a further bane to my existence—and worse, they often reproduce and “raise” even more retarded children that aren’t actually parented and make things worse. This is fucking dysgenics. This is the seeds of motherfucking Idiocracy! Centuries down the line, the fucking mongoloid retards will have outbred all the fucking smart and decent people. (And don’t expect me to start breeding to counteract it. I don’t trust my abilities as a parent, and if you read this blog, you shouldn’t trust them, either.)

Hey, look, my parents weren’t perfect, but they fucking tried, damn it! They put some fucking effort into making sure I knew how to behave in public, and weren’t afraid to actually put their feet down when necessary to make me behave. They didn’t even have to use violence. No laying of hands, no spanking, nothing that could even be borderline considered child abuse—stern words and carefully applied punishments can go a long way to ensuring kids behave. It’s not unlike training a dog.

Hm. Maybe, I should be a parent.

Nah.

I would like to tell you all a little story about my bus ride home the other night. I climbed aboard my usual bus, and sat in my usual spot. Along the way, the bus stopped and picked up a man who clearly was suffering from a mental disorder, most likely schizophrenia, as he was rambling and ranting and raving out loud. Still, he possessed enough of his facilities to get on the bus to go somewhere—I would presume home, much like myself. He sat in the back of the bus, I suspect to reduce people’s exposure to his loud conversation with nobody in particular.

A few stops along the way, a woman boarded the bus, and expressed concern. She spoke to the driver. We’re held up. Apparently, this woman has taken issue with the man in the back of the bus. Sensing a problem, the man disembarked. Meanwhile, we’re still held up. The woman, relieved that the man has left, expresses her relief out loud, claiming “[T]hat’s how people get killed.” The bus is still held up, however, as the driver has summoned the police to address the woman’s complaint. At this point, I express my frustration, and get off the bus, vowing to walk home. Besides, I had to piss like a racehorse, anyway.

Who has caused the problem here: The schizophrenic man, or the consternated woman? Write your answer down on a slip of paper, and fold it in half.

If you said the schizophrenic man, please take that paper, light it on fire, and apply the fire to your external genitalia, and fuck yourself hard enough to travel through time.

Mental illness exists, and it’s a fucking problem, but no matter how much of a fucking problem it is for you to deal with the mentally ill, the mentally ill have a bigger fucking problem dealing with themselves. What pissed me off most about the bus situation, aside from being held up from getting home so that the fucking police could come to the bus when they have better things to do, is that the woman bitching about the schizophrenic guy was a nurse—well, she at least had scrubs on. I sure hope she never has to work in the psych ward, and I would pity the patients if she did.

The idea that schizophrenics are violent is for the most part a fucking myth. In fact, according to studies, people with schizophrenia are 14 times more fucking likely to be a victim of violence, rather than the other way around.. The poor, rambling man on the bus, loud as he is, is not a threat to your well-being, so let him the fuck alone. I know it can be pretty hard to share a bus with someone who rants, yells, and raves to nobody but himself, but it’s way fucking harder to be the guy who rants, yells, and raves to nobody but himself. You only have to put up with it for a little while—he has to live with it all the fucking time.

Do a little research, grow the fuck up, and learn to deal with people who have problems. If you really want to complain about the prevalence of the mentally ill in society, why not bitch about how the infrastructure to support the mentally ill was pretty much fucking gutted in the 1970s and 1980s—no small thanks to Mr. Ronald Fucking Reagan. It’s a fucked up, sad situation, and idiots who don’t understand mental illness ain’t making it any fucking easier for those who have it.

Christ, this really pisses me off. You find a cool new website, you love the guy’s writing, you subscribe in your RSS reader or whatnot, and then after two weeks, it’s all done. They go for, what, three fucking months without updating? How fucking insulting is that? It shows an absolute goddamn lack of consideration for the larval audience. It shows that one simply doesn’t fucking care. If you do this with your website/blog/internet thing, then fuck you.

Yes, I am being self-referential. After getting my hatewank on for two weeks, I managed to find a surprising dose of inner calm and relaxation. The rudeness and stupidity of the world around me just washed off my back. Sadly, it didn’t last. After another two weeks, the rage began to build again. Slowly, subtly, this angry motherfucker began to return to his true ways. I realized what needed to be done after some shithead’s bratty children ran amuck at the self-checkout in a local grocery store. I’ve got a whole bloody angry rant for people like that stupid bitch and her hyperactive retard children.

It goes up on Friday.

Expect fresh-baked rage once a week. I promise. Otherwise, fuck me, and the fucking horse I rode in on.

In Internet years, I’m a fucking geezer. I’ve been busting my ass on the web since the fucking mid-90’s. Sure, there were plenty of people out there before me, but compared to some of the fucking retarded wastes of carbon that have access to the internet now, I’m older than fucking dirt. Let me tell you something about the olden days of the Internet: if we wanted to piss someone off, we fucking put some effort into it. We fucking build up fucking layer upon layer upon layer of abuse. It was direct, and it was personalized. Trolling someone took some motherfucking work, and the payoff was beautiful. Watching someone freak out in plaintext in an IRC channel could easily be the highlight of a day.

Yes, this is shallow. I was a fucking teenager with no social life. Fuck you.

Now-a-days, when I go about my routine on the web, and someone tries to fuck with me, it just reeks of a lack of effort. Instead, it’s a shitload of meme-spouting, energyless, lazy morons who don’t have the patience or the braincells to actually, properly troll someone. This is probably best exemplified by that wonderful little distillation of the Internet: ChatRoulette. (I’m not linking it. You probably already know it.) First time I logged onto that site, some guy took a look at me, called me a faggot, and flipped me off. Then, he vanished.

You call that trolling? I call that failing. The fact that I’m ranting about this might be indication of success, but what pisses me off is not being called a faggot, or flipped off. I’ve had both done, in real life, by far better. What pisses me off is the idea that someone can fucking get on a site, hold up their middle finger, and think they’re pissing people off, or being a troll. You’re not. You are to a proper troll what a fucking turd is to the fucking statue of David. Actually, I take that back, you’re what a turd is to Serrano’s Piss Christ. A turd can offend a lot of people, but a fucking turd only offends for so long. Once the initial shock value dies down, everyone just gets bored. “Oh, it’s a piece of shit. Yes. Fine. Can we move on?” A troll, a genuine fucking troll, starts small and builds. The abuse starts simple and grows, slowly, delicately, like a flower. You don’t just start by calling them a faggot. Christ, that ceased being a decent insult after Kindergarten, these days.

If you want to troll someone, you have to make them question the very essence of the self. Find their weakness, learn what will piss them off, slowly infuriate them, and then go for the fucking kill. Shit like this is hard to do when they have an easy method of escape, like on the aforementioned ChatRoulette, so you need to keep them interested in hearing what you have to say. Give them a chance to respond. The victim wants to win, but their parries just give you the chance to twist the knife in deeper. You need to really offend them, not just make gestures and use words your mom would (hopefully) bitchslap you for saying.

Fucking Christ. Just fucking try, will you? I’ve got far more respect for someone who knows how to piss me off on purpose than those who piss me off by sheer luck.

Tl;DR — TRY HARDER.

Yeah, this is petty shit. Bite me. It’s still fucking gross as fuck to see someone walking down the street, with their fucking mouth hanging open. I mean, fuck me in the ass with a spiked dildo, and using my own boiling blood for lube, what is your goddamn fucking problem? At the very least, have the fucking courtesy to mop up your fucking saliva if you’re going to walk around like that. Show some dignity, show some respect for yourselves and others, you stupid shit.

Honestly, take a look at yourself in the mirror with your mouth closed. Then, look at yourself with your mouth hanging open like the fucking simian you are. Which makes you look more attractive, intelligent, and civilized? Here’s a big fucking hint: the one where people can’t look down your fucking throat and see your teeth, tongue, uvula, and probably your motherfucking tonsils. Knock this shit off right now.

The only person I’ll let go around like this is Roger Ebert, and that’s because he’s got a motherfucking excuse; no lower jaw.

What the fuck is this shit?!

There’s lots of fucking hate on hipsters, and not all of it is justified. Oh, please don’t think I’m trying to defend those shallow, poorly dressed, socially retarded wastes of someone else’s trust fund. However, this shit, this fucking shit, just takes the fucking cake. It’s the fucking Census, not a fucking prelude to martial fucking law. You fill out a fucking form. Not even a fucking hard one, either.

See this? Does this look fucking complex? Jesus wept, you fuckshits filled out harder forms to rent your goddamn apartments, assuming Mommy and Daddy didn’t do it for you. Hardest part is just putting your fucking name in the blocks. I filled mine out the day I got it—took three minutes, and the first minute was just finding a fucking pen.

The reasoning behind this is absolute retarded bullshit. How do these people fucking breathe?

Ms. JAMIE LILLY: You know, on a personal note, maybe some people, they figure what’s the point to be counted if you dont count for much anyway? If we dont count, why be counted?

Yeah, the fucking government doesn’t need to know how many fucking people are in your neighborhood. It doesn’t matter if there aren’t enough funds to go to your local schools or hospitals. You don’t count, huh? Stupid little fucking bitch, if I ever meet you, I will fucking cunt-punt you so hard that your uterus will pop out of your skull. You’re so fucking anti-establishment, aren’t you? Fuck off and die. It’s a fucking census you twat. It affects you, and you count.

Here’s another fucking genius:

Mr. STARK: I mean people would do if they got like five bucks.

You want five bucks to fill out a census form? How about a blowjob and a pony, too? It’s a fucking simple task. Hardest thing is walking it to the fucking mailbox, you twat. You shouldn’t be given a fucking reward for filling out your census form. Fuck me, did your mom give you five bucks every time you fucking put your underpants on properly in the morning? That’s what this shit should be like: putting your fucking underpants on. It’s a simple, basic thing. The only difference is that you (I hope) wear underpants every day, but you only have to do the census every ten fucking years.

Stupid fucking hipsters. Someone needs to fucking nuke Williamsburg. At least the Hasidic Jew guy handled the interviewer properly: he kept his fucking mouth shut.

conversation noun (/ˌkɑnvɚˈseɪʃən/) Expression and exchange of individual ideas through talking with other people; also, a set instance or occasion of such talking.

So, you ignorant motherfuckers, that “exchange” thing only works when the other person can actually get a word in. Therefore, if you’re talking to me, kindly learn to shut the fuck up, and don’t monopolize the fucking conversation. Jesus, Allah, Buddha, and motherfucking Vishnu, how the fuck am I supposed to reply when you’re just spewing a motherfucking pile of sounds out of your mouth that are tangentially related to what we’re talking about at best? Motherfucker, you best learn to shut up, and quick, because you’re wasting my time and yours.

I mean, let’s say you ask me a question. I can answer it, and we can be done, but you choose to load up a fuckton of bullshit explanation and exposition to your question that will have no fucking bearing on my response. Why not just cut it? Why tell me this shit? I don’t fucking care. Shut up, shut up, shut up! Even worse, I’m trying to answer your question, or respond to your statement, and you talk the fuck over me with more bullshit. Sometimes, you might even ask me about something I was about to fucking address. Be patient, wait for me to fucking finish, and I’ll fucking get to it! Also, please stop repeating yourself. I got what you said; if I didn’t, I’d fucking ask your stupid ass to repeat it.

Do these things, please, and conversation with me can be a lot more pleasant. Don’t and I will rip out your fucking larynx. Got me?