knight offended

If you’re somehow offended by that random collection of words then you need to reconsider your life. No seriously, go sit in a fuckin corner for a while and contemplate how pathetic you are and the poor life choices you’ve made that led you down the garden path of being “offended” by mere words. You are not only a cretin and an oxygen thief, but you are haphazardly propagating an epidemic worse than AIDS, Ebola and Swine Flu combined. Like rats spreading the bubonic plague, people who claim to be “offended” over every event in their lives that causes them to think or be uncomfortable need to be eradicated.

This week I’ll likely offend some weak cunts as I examine this puerile cultural phenomenon that is rapidly eroding the fabric of society – that of being “offended”.


So just when and how did this nonsense begin? At what point did the politically correct movement swing the pendulum of human decency from segregating black people and jailing queers for butt stuff to the extreme polar opposite of labelling every fuckin thing under the sun as being racist / homophobic / sexist?

For starters, the so-called “Millennial” generation has to be the largest gaggle of limp wristed, mollycoddled bottom feeders in the history of modern civilisation. My grandfather was flying bombers in World War 2 not long after he got hair on his balls. My father was conscripted to compulsory military service in Algeria when he was 18. He slept with a machine gun under his fuckin pillow and watched captured rebel guerrillas get tortured by having their balls zapped off by way of electrocution.

Nowadays, we have school athletics carnivals where every single kid gets a ribbon for participation. No 1st place or trophy or anything that indicates they performed better than any of the other kids in the races. The organizers fear that 6 year old kids would be upset if they were to lose. So rather than potentially upset a child, they take away every child’s chance at achieving a victory. I think this mentality permeates this generation of kids now. They never learn how to lose, fail, or be challenged; they just show up with a sense of entitlement.

This echoes into adulthood as we’ve also got university students that cry their little eyes out over chalk signs on the ground promoting Donald Trump, demanding ‘safe spaces’ and ‘trigger warnings’ so that their delicate feelings and sensibilities are never ruffled and they never have to experience a moment of discomfort by realising that someone else thinks differently to what they do.

In just three generations we’ve gone from trench warfare to a bunch of pussies whose biggest battles are jousted behind a keyboard against strangers on the internet who hurt their fee fees. Our ancestors who fought for our collective freedoms must be spinning in their fucking graves.

chalk trump

chalk whine



One can’t completely blame the Millennials for how fragile and insipid they’ve become though. There is some historical precedent that has woven this rich tapestry of faggotry and previous generations have to shoulder some of the blame. Childhood itself has changed greatly during the past generation. Many Baby Boomers and Gen Xers can remember riding their bicycles around the burbs unchaperoned by adults by the time they were 8 or 9 years old. In the hours after school, kids were expected to occupy themselves, getting into minor scrapes and learning from their experiences.

But childhood as us old cunts knew it became less common in the late 1980s / early 90s. Stories of abducted children appeared more frequently in the news media, and in 1984 images of them began showing up on milk cartons in the United States. In response, many parents pulled in the reins and worked harder to keep their children safe from molesters (never mind the fact if you were being molested it was probably by one of their friends or another family member) and helicopter parenting became the new black.

This melodrama wasn’t restricted to the home though, schools got on board pretty swiftly as well. “Dangerous” play structures were removed from playgrounds; peanut butter was banned from student lunches. Any games that involved any kind of rough housing or physical contact began to be banned during breaks, with schools fearful of being opened up to litigation from some cretinous parent who decided to sue because little Johnny broke his arm falling off the monkey bars. I can’t even begin to imagine school life without peanut butter sandwiches, kick arse play gyms and chaotic games of British Bulldog at lunch time.

Good job baby boomers you bloated, underachieving clods.

Then some good minded fools from GenX (I’m picturing an overweight female primary school teacher who wasn’t much chop at sports and likely a very nice person) started the “everyone gets a trophy” mentality that seemed to spread. So these kids grew up thinking they’re all special, unique little snowflakes who deserve everything. Everyone got a trophy. Everyone told they’re amazing. Everyone told they deserve whatever they want. Everyone living within some kind of immaculate delusion whereby life suddenly, inexplicably became “fair”.

It’s no surprise that there is such a pervading sense of entitlement amongst the Millennial generation when from the moment they were farted out of their mother’s wombs they were told every ticket was a winner.

We failed these kids. Rather than preparing them for the game of life where sometimes you win and sometimes you get corn holed by a sweaty, obese motherfucker wearing a condom made out of sandpaper, we created a false expectation that everyone deserves a good life and good treatment and should have everything everyone else has. I think this mentality permeates this generation of kids now. “How dare you be better, smarter, faster, wealthier, stronger, taller, etc.” “I’m offended that you are making me feel as if I’m not entirely equal to you and everyone else!”

When you think the world revolves around you, anything that doesn’t match your view of that world is bound to be upsetting.

Technology also played an important role in this repulsive cultural trend. One could argue that stupid people have always been offended but now they have the internet which makes it easy to complain, allows them to do so without having to directly speak to somebody and creates an echo-chamber of the most easily-offended that further distorts their view of reality.

Back in the day it used to take effort to be offended. You had to find the address for NBC and sit down at the typewriter to write an actual letter when an episode of The Golden Girls got your panties in a bunch.

golden girls

Nowadays you don’t even need to get out of your seat and put pants on to be offended. The internet exposed a lot of feeble-minded people (which constitutes the majority of the human race unfortunately) to a lot of information and worse – to each other. Instruments like Twitter and Facebook allow these imbeciles to more easily mobilise and have their whiny voices heard.

Every week there are dozens of new national outrages and boycott campaigns and social media crusades to raise awareness about some offensive thing, or to get someone fired for saying some offensive thing, or to teach people that some previously non-offensive thing has now become offensive. Their goal, they say is to inform and advise, but in reality they’re just created by humourless busybodies who believe that their opinions are more valid than others.

They’ll start some online boycott or petition, which will then trend on Twitter for a couple hours. Some cable news producer, desperate for content, will put them on TV, which only validates the busybody’s already overinflated sense of entitlement. The problem with this is it’s the blind leading the blind.

Unfortunately the loudest voices on the internet aren’t generally the pragmatic, intelligent types; it’s the simpleminded sophists who are commanding the attention of the hordes of fucktards that inhabit the worldwide web.

This is borne out by the fact that the hot topics that people like to get all worked up about are seldom the things that as a species we actually should be offended by. Youth suicide rate? All good. Millions of poor little black cunts starving on the other side of the planet? Sweet as bro. Thousands of people sleeping on the streets tonight? No worries. A dentist shoots a lion on a game reserve? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?? THIS IS AN ABSOLUTE TRAVESTY!!! HE SHOT CECIL?! CECIL IS LIKE MY FAVE LION (APART FROM THE ONE THAT ROARS AT THE START OF METRO GOLDWYN MAYER FILMS, OH AND THE PADDLE POP LION WHO IS A TOTAL BOSS) THAT I ONLY HEARD OF 10 MINUTES AGO BUT HE HAS A NAME DAMNIT WHICH HUMANISES HIM AND I TELL YOU WHAT I’M SO OUTRAGED I’M GONNA TELL EVERYONE ON MY FACEBOOK FRIEND LIST BY SHARING THIS POST!



So just what is being offended (other than a way for stupid people to feel important)? It’s basically an emotional reaction to something you didn’t want to hear, read, or see. The inability to have any response to a situation other than your own emotional reaction seems like a personality disorder, especially since it requires the offendee to believe that their feelings matter to anyone other than themselves. In the end, as harsh as this sounds, who gives a fuck about your feelings? You, your partner and the people close to you if you’re lucky. No one gives a shite that you’re offended, the offence you’ve taken at something you saw on TV or on the internet is completely and utterly irrelevant to anyone other than yourself.

Let’s think about this for a moment. You’re offended. You’ve taken offence. You announce that on a website or comment thread (or to a live human being) as if it means something, as if it’s some grand proclamation with relevance and importance. But all you’re really saying is  “I don’t know you and you don’t know me, and we’ve had two totally different lives, but your existence is not validating mine, and that makes me sad, and therefore you should stop doing what you’re doing.”

Do you see how utterly insane that is?

“I’ve had a unique experience of life and my feelings reflect that experience but you don’t, and so YOU’RE WRONG! Stop it! I’m hurt! Can somebody please call me a waaaaaahhhmbulance?!”

The problem is not that you’re “offended.” The problem is that you think the rest of the world should care, do something about it, and change its behaviour to accommodate your inner self. I hate to break it to you, but your feelings are your own. They’re not his or hers or the douchebag writing this article. They are YOURS.

Deal with it you weak cunt.



While I’m often accused of having offended people it is an extremely rare occurrence that I find myself offended by anything people say or do. In order to offend me, first I have to know who you are. Second, I have to respect you and your opinions. Third, the offensive statement (or action) must be directed at me personally, not just a group with whom I may be affiliated. If any of those three criteria are not met, I have zero shits to give.

Yet a lot of people nowadays seem to get all bent out of shape over the most ridiculous things. Let’s have a look at some of the main things that tend to “offend” the soft of cranium shall we?

Being offended by someone else’s mistake

One time I was sitting in a restaurant and this blubber ridden old biatch started to scream at the poor waitress until she was in tears because the cook had put the sauce on the plate instead of on the side “Are you fucking stupid? I clearly ordered the sauce ON THE SIDE. I bet you didn’t even take my order down right. Is it too much to ask JUST TO GET SOME DECENT SERVICE?!” I leaned towards my partner and mused rather loudly “Jeez if she’s down here who’s running hell?” upon which Fatty McFlangebag seemed to simmer down some and even seemed a little embarrassed. The way she carried on was like it was some kind of personal vendetta against her by the waitress to fuck up her day when really the cook probably just forgot because he smoked a fat spliff on his tea break and was inundated with orders.

Being offended on someone else’s behalf

This applies very heavily to the national pastime of the politically correct – accusing everyone of being racist.

“That word/action/phrase/birthday cake is offensive to (insert race) people” is most frequently stated by white morons who, in an ironically racist way, seem to think that (insert race) people are not capable of speaking for themselves. You might be surprised at how alone you are in your stance if you ever asked a group of Native Americans if they are offended that there is a football team called the Redskins. Most of them are too busy working, raising kids, paying taxes, and doing other stuff that actually matters to worry about that nonsense.

I was recently talking to a mate at work about how some people are hard to understand on the phone due to their accents and suggested his lot were shocking for it (my friend is Indian – dots not feathers). This empty headed bimbo who was eavesdropping our conversation decided to pipe up and tell me off because my comment “wasn’t appropriate”. It seems the height of narcissism to be offended by something like this because you assume not only that the person being addressed should be offended (he wasn’t) and the person saying it should give a fuck what you think is appropriate (I didn’t). Here’s a thought; how bout you stop pretending that you matter so damn much and start working on being better at something useful rather than listening to other people’s conversations and being offended by proxy.

Being offended by words

I understand why some words are thought of as being offensive, but I refuse to let a group of letters have any kind of power over me. It is especially self-involved to pick a word that doesn’t really offend anyone and decide to be offended by it (anyone else have a laugh at the recent statement from the so-called Australian of the Year that we shouldn’t use the word “guys” in the workplace as it’s somehow not inclusive towards women despite it referring to both sexes for quite a while now. What a flog!)

I think half the reason I’m so tired of people being offended about things is that it is so damn self-important. “That word makes ME feel a certain way, so EVERYBODY has to cater to MY idiot ways and respect ME and MY feelings.” Fuck you jizz rag.

On another occasion not long ago this absolute winner managed the quinella of both being offended on someone else’s behalf and by a word. In a Facebook group chat (that consisted of stand-up comedians mind you) I ribbed this geezah for living in Sydney and asked when he was gonna stop being a fag and move to a real city like Melbourne. Immediately a tumble weed rolled through Facebook Messenger before this militant lesbian commented simply “Fag?” as if to imply I had committed a mortal sin somewhat akin to raping a small child at its own baptism ceremony and then washing my knob off in the holy water afterwards.

Now I’m not sure if she got the memo that an offended stand-up comedian is like the least funniest thing on the planet apart from AIDS, but I was kinda surprised that she chose to take offence on someone else’s behalf like that for what was essentially good natured ribbing. What surprised me even more though was when my friend who was leading the chat (also a stand-up comedian) seemed to side with her (as she apparently has a lot of gay friends and what I said was offensive to her because of that and I should maybe just retract my statement and apologise). How does get fucked sound? I instantly lost respect for him.

For one because he didn’t have the balls to stand up for a mate that he knows has nothing against anyone (I’m an equal opportunity offender haha) and for two because he’s been gullible enough to fall for this whole con job propagated by limp wristed libtards that we should be constantly vigilant for fear that we might say something to offend someone.

When I called that dude a fag, homosexuality was the last thing on my mind. Similar to how sometimes people ask me, “Why do you use the word ‘Retard’?” “Because I like the way it sounds, the connotation it has, and I can use whatever fucking word I want, retard” is the short answer.

sorry not sorry



Make no mistake; we are living in a victim era. People want attention so the best way to do that is to be offended or to be offended for someone else. Everyone wants to be the victim, no one wants to be the perpetrator and a lot of people seem to think if you aren’t one than you must be the other. Victimization garners sympathy and empathy from others. Rather than acknowledge their perceived shortcomings and work to overcome them or work around them, victims use them to justify why they do not have the life they think they want.

We live in a culture that glorifies victimhood. Power is derived from special status, and right now that status is gained by claiming some form of oppression. We are underestimating self-awareness and our ability to strengthen our own emotional intelligence and are mainly focusing on just building up a lot of bullshit to keep everybody comfortable in their complexes. Why change yourself and become a stronger person, when you can just change your whole environment and the people around it, thereby neglecting any personal responsibility at all?

According to the most-basic tenets of psychology, helping people with anxiety disorders avoid the things they fear is misguided. Yet we engender a mentality of avoidance rather than one of confrontation, choosing to teach people that anything that makes them uncomfortable or doesn’t fit their world view can be complained about long and loud enough until someone nurses their booboo and they feel comfy again.

There is a saying: “It is easier to put on slippers than it is to carpet the world.” Yet here we are barefooted, angrily rolling out hectares of carpet across the globe because our feet are cold!

I don’t know enough to make predictions, but if there’s one thing history has taught us is that life consists of a series of backlashes one after the other. Like a pendulum swinging back and forth, except that things never quite go back to the way that they were before.

The backlash against this cultural phenomenon has already started and the pendulum is beginning to swing in the opposite direction. I am far from the only one complaining about what a bunch of pantywaists we have become as I see more and more people voicing their discontent about political correctness.

Some of you reading this are pretty offended and the notion that my Facebook friend list will have decreased ever so slightly by tomorrow evening makes me happy in my no-no spot. But not as happy as knowing that other people reading this are fed up with this politically correct nonsense and would like to start addressing matters that actually, well, matter.

The simple fact is that this climate of fear of social discourse is slowly being institutionalized, and is affecting what can be said in our nation’s classrooms, even as a basis for discussion. It is highly dangerous in that it presumes an extraordinary fragility of the human psyche, and therefore elevates the goal of protecting people from psychological harm past that of a free exchange of ideas and dialogue.

The reality is we are all a little bit sexist and we are all a little bit racist. The politically correct left believes that you can stamp this out by censoring language. They think that if you change the words you use for things, you can change reality. Well you can’t. You can’t make people not racist by banning the word nigger. You can’t stop people from being homophobic by banning schoolchildren from using the words “gay” and “faggot” in the schoolyard, that’s not how it works.

The purpose of a civilised society is to enable all of us to live together in harmony and communicate with one another, successfully build businesses and have interpersonal relationships with one another – despite our limitations and bigotries. Not to try and stamp those imperfections out.

Political correctness seeks to reduce the scope of acceptable thought and language in order to guide discussion in particular ideological directions. Another words, much like religion it is a form or subtle manipulation and brain washing. By rewarding these assclowns who claim the rest of society needs to cater to their every whim and need we are essentially stifling intellectual discussion and creating a victim mentality that denotes a distinct lack of personal responsibility for people’s own lives.

People need to lighten the fuck up and learn to laugh at themselves for a start; there are too many serious assholes on this planet. If you’re the type to get offended over the smell of a fart you need to understand that you are not actually upset by whatever it was the other person said or did (they farted). You’re not upset because the girl at McDonald’s is rude to you, or that prick stole your parking space or because other people can’t seem to keep their fuckin kids off the escalator at the shopping centre.

You’re using that excuse to justify a thought you’re having about yourself and your place in the world. And it’s that thought, your thought, that’s making you upset. For example, if someone is rude to you, it may make you feel powerless (you can’t do anything about it), devalued (she was rude to you because you’re not worth being nice to), or depressed (people in general are just nasty).

All of those emotions will lead to anger which is what being offended is all about: the feeling that you’ve somehow been diminished, causing you to get defensive and angry.

So it’s not my fault you chose to get defensive and angry because I called you a nigga faggot tranny gay cunt who says fuck Islam because they Jihad like retarded little bitches.

It’s yours.

louis offended

The Politics of Anal

anal broccoli

Sexual intercourse is like a game of golf. You don’t have to be good at it to enjoy it, sometimes your balls get wet and every now and again you have to putt from the rough. But a lot of guys don’t know how to properly execute their shots when they’re playing the back nine. It’s not as simple as whacking one straight up the fairway, if you don’t exercise due care and tenderness towards your playing partner than you could end up bogeying hole number two.

And let’s face it – if you smash in a woman’s backdoor and then paint it white on the way out then don’t be too surprised if you’re denied access to the tradesman’s entrance forever afterwards. Butt secks can be one of the hottest, most intimate forms of sexual intercourse. It can also be one of the most painful and embarrassing which is why a lot of women who may in fact enjoy it will run a mile when you start looking for love in all the wrong places. So guard the exit door and try not to lose your shit as this week I educate you on the politics of anal.



dirt road meme


Anal sex gets a bad rap and it’s not hard to understand why. It’s been considered taboo for centuries and often considered to foster homosexual tendencies. For thousands of years the Christian church condemned the practice of both oral and anal sex, yet its practice has been recorded and dates back several centuries in cultures worldwide.

Ancient engravings, paintings, and artwork from Asia, Europe, South America, and parts of the Mediterranean depict heterosexual men engaging in anal sex with women. So it’s fair to say that despite the NASA space program only commencing in the 1960’s, human beings have been drilling for oil on the moon for quite a long time.

But what was once considered to be taboo is now becoming quite commonplace amongst heterosexual couples. Since the 1950s rates of heterosexual anal intercourse have increased in the U.S (it’s regularly practiced by approximately 10% of heterosexual couples) and according to the numbers in a new study if you were to count up all of the people having anal sex at one time in the U.S there would be more heterosexual couples engaging in the act than homosexuals. That’s a lot of cars cruising down the marmite motorway on a Friday night.



backstage passes


Not all men enjoy making love to a woman whose head is on backwards (usually dudes who are sexually repressed or worried about getting their hands a bit dirty LOL) but for a lot of us it is an incredible turn on; the final frontier of a sexual interaction with a woman. So let’s have a closer look at the psychology behind our desire to dial “O” on the brown telephone shall we? Here are some of the reasons guys are so keen to let the one eyed child spit into the well:


Essentially, men want what they can’t have, and finding a woman that’s willing to give it is a huge turn on. Throughout history, anal intercourse has been known as a sexual forbidden fruit of sorts. This off-limits factor makes it especially appealing to us; the thought of a woman allowing us to put it up her bum bum just seems so deliciously naughty. And we like to be naughty.


As the saying goes “variety is the spice of life”. So the idea of something new and different will be especially appealing and exciting to us. For many men, anal sex is seen as a ‘gift’ from their partners – something rare and special. Who the fuck doesn’t like presents? Personally I’d trade Christmas day for Anal Sex day in a heartbeat. I fuckin hate Christmas haha


Anal is all about sex for the sake of sex. It’s purely physical without thought to pregnancy (up the bum no babies!) so there’s something very primitive and animalistic in taking a woman this way. It’s sexual intercourse in its rawest form; where all inhibitions and preconceptions fall away and all that is left is two people going at it like wolves. No wonder guys go a bit nuts when it’s a full moon.


Believe it or not, a lot of guys are into anal because on an emotional level it feels really intimate. There’s a lot of prepping that needs to happen, plus a greater level of communication and foreplay involved in the actual act. When a woman allows me access to her no-no spot it evokes a profound sense of love and trust; that her willingness to give all of herself to me and know I won’t abuse that trust connects us on a deeper level that is often the most gratifying part of any sexual interaction.


You can pretty much split heterosexual men into two groups – tit men and ass men. Some of us sit on the fence and refuse to play favourites, but for the most part we know which group we fall into. There’s not a doubt in my mind that I’m an ass man every day of the week and twice on Sunday’s. Now don’t get me wrong, I love titties, I do. Them shits is delicious. I just don’t feel the deep vibrations between me and baps that I do with me and butts. No matter how salacious or perfectly formed a woman’s breasts are, I can have a conversation with her and never drop my gaze from her eyes once. But when a woman has a nice pair of legs and an onion butt (an ass so beautiful it makes me cry) then I become a slack-jawed yokel; gazing in admiration at that juicy wiggle as it walks off into the sunset.

I like bodacious butts and I cannot lie.



pussy vacation


Conversely, not all women are afraid of making a baby the hard way (with a small percentage who the only thing they enjoy more than a dick in their ass is two dicks in their ass) but for a lot of women it can be frightening – even if they’ve done it before. There are a number of reasons a young lady may be apprehensive at becoming backdoor buddies with her bed partner. Let’s look at some of the main ones:


One time I managed to coerce a girl I was seeing into putting an unexpected item into her bagging area. After the deed was done and I triumphantly withdrew my bald headed yoghurt slinger I realised something was seriously amiss. Sitting on the end of my knob was a hearty nugget of shit. As the foul stench of this egregious example of excrement began to sting my nostrils a look of horror swept over my face. The young lady started to chortle and vindictively crowed “well that’s what you get for fucking me up the arse you dirty cunt!”

Now in this instance I was the one who ran to the shower crying while she laid there laughing like a fuckin drain. But a lesser woman probably would have been mortified and embarrassed by the experience. The fear of a shitcident probably greatly inhibits a lot of women from attempting anal sex.


On another occasion I picked a girl up at a nite club and took her back to my place. As I fantasised about the myriad of ways I was going to violate this 23 year old nurse with cans the size of ripened cantaloupes my mischievous machinations were brought to a grinding halt. Turns out her parents were extremely strict Catholics (they sounded like fanatics) and the whole sex before marriage thing was a no go; she was a virgin.

Well at least her pussy was anyway. For some bizarre reason these people believe that pre-marital vaginal sex is off limits but bum sex is A-O-K in God’s eyes. But if the front door was locked than the backdoor was firmly boarded shut with guard dogs sitting in front of it waiting to bite my dick off.

Apparently the only real sexual experience she’d had was with some thoughtless fucktard who subscribed to the porno film method of anal sex. Rather than using plenty of lubricant and starting off with a finger and tenderly working his way up to popping her chocolate covered cherry, this clod put a bit of spit on it and basically sodomised her – ensuring the Hershey highway was indefinitely closed for repairs by the time I tried to drive down it. You have a traumatic experience like that and of course you’re going to assume it will be a painful experience forever afterwards.


As per the above, some women are scared that an inexperienced man will thrust his penis in too quickly and tear something up in there. Or their asshole will stretch out so much that their future bowel movements will have the consistency of a McDonald’s thickshake and she’ll need tampons for her mud whistle as well as her fanny.


If you have ever seen pictures of cauliflower butts that gay men get from too much anal sex … not a massive surprise that some ladies would be shit scared (no pun intended) of having that happening to their tidy little balloon knots.


With some guys being serious assholes (I swear these puns aren’t intended!) I’m sure there would be a proportion of women who fear that once he’s speared her rear she’ll be discarded like yesterday’s newspaper. Even the saying “fucked in the ass” implies some level of debasement; no woman wants to feel degraded while having an intimate experience with a man.



dr strangelove

So there you have it guys, the politics of anal. Like anything in life, toiling at the chocolate coalface has its pleasures and its pitfalls. It can either result in an intensely rewarding sexual experience and a deeply intimate connection with another human being, or it can end up with a woman screaming like a wounded banshee and doo-doo butter all over the sheets.

It’s not going to be for everyone, but it’s definitely worth giving it a shot (in the pooper hehe) at least once – how else will you know whether it’s your thing or not?

For the guys reading this – start slow, don’t be stingy with the lube and be mindful of how your partner is feeling. The truth is a lot of women actually want to try it with you! But you have to take their fears seriously. Unless you assuage their anxiety and make them feel totally comfortable about anal sex, it’s never gonna happen. Be a gentleman and romance their rectums and you’ll be browning your meat in no time.

For the girls reading this – don’t believe all the myths and give penis a chance. Every woman has a little wild streak in them and a desire to be a bad girl. Who wants to always be the goody two shoes? There’s something alluring and mysterious about the dark side, dangerous and edgy. The fact that your tight little back door is “forbidden” and “taboo” makes that wild kinky side come out in the bedroom. Plus, if you’re a lady in the streets and a freak in the sheets, your man is going to die of happiness; he’s got the gorgeous, confident, trophy wife to the public and the sexy, wild, mistress-like vixen in the bedroom. Embrace your dark side and give your man a double win.

Because we all win then.

And just remember kids:

Shit Happens When You Party Naked

shit happens 1

So I’m sitting on the edge of a paddy wagon looking up at a male and a female Police officer and they ask me what drugs I’ve taken. I laugh diabolically and say “all of em!” The male Police officer casts me a withering glare and then asks “so why are you naked?” I look down and realise at this point I’m regaled in nothing but my birthday suit and a dog tag necklace my mama gave me. “Umm I dunno, I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” I had no idea where I was, how I had got there or what was happening. I certainly didn’t know why I was nuded up to the max.


Let’s rewind to the events leading up to this.

It’s Good Friday eve and I’m at a house party. Nothing over the top, just a few bevvies, some sick tunes and communion with my old friend Harry Wong. At some point in the evening the host breaks out a small bottle of liquid LSD and starts dishing out drops like the fuckin candy shop owner in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Being the guts I am I demand two drops. The dude gives me a speech similar to the one Willy Wonka gives about the everlasting gobstoppers (everyone is getting one, and one is enough for anyone) but I press on and have a whinge and eventually he acquiesces and gives me two drops in the little well that your hand makes when you flatten your fingers and raise your thumb. I hungrily lick the minty liquid off my hand and prepare to enter bat country.

An hour or so passes and I start to wig out. This shit is definitely much stronger than advertised. For some reason I get upset and start yelling and carrying on like a nut job, I vaguely remember screaming at the people “I’ll always remember this, I’ll always remember this!” and start to question why we exist. Then I start to cry because I don’t want the Police to come and ruin the party for everyone so I make the decision to go to the main bedroom and be on my own for awhile.

This is the point where things start to go seriously sideways. I go to another place, a place I’ve never been before. It feels like I’m being taken out of this world and to get there I need to go out how the way I came in, unencumbered by anything on my mortal body. So I start taking off all my clothes and jewellery. I can remember being too fucked up to be able to undo the dog tag around my neck but this exit from the world seemed so right and so just that I recall thinking this other force drawing me away is going to take it off for me, so I just lay there waiting for them to undo the clasp so I can finally go home.

I must’ve left the room in my birthday suit and started causing more of a commotion because I can remember the people at the party around me, trying to talk me down. But it all just felt like a dream, I was going off to certain death and all of their chatter just fades away into the background like non-diegetic music in a film. While it seems strange that this is how I will meet my fate, the feeling of it being so perfect washes over me and off I go.

The next vague memory I have is being in a car and I feel trapped. It seems like I have to fight for my life so I begin lashing out like Bruce Banner when he goes into Hulk mode and starts smashing the fuck out of everything. I manage to escape the vehicle and I take off up the road like Usain Bolt in the hundred metre sprint final. Everything fades to black.

naked manWhat ensued from here was incredibly powerful and surreal, but due to the addled condition of my psyche the memory of what happened is quite patchy so I will try and describe it as best as I can. I knew I was dying, but it felt like my death was for all of humanity; like out of billions of people I was the world’s chosen representative to go and fight the good fight at this other place I was being sent to. Much like Jesus Christ, I was dying for the greater good of everyone. How ironic.

My life flashed before my eyes. I giggle to myself. It is exactly in line with my personality, I am amused by how the macabre nature of what is happening is offset by how it challenges the essential core of who I am. I can remember running, running as fast as I can so that this thing can’t catch up with me, I don’t want to leave yet. Then time slows down and the feeling of urgency passes. I remember feeling like Barack Obama going out for a jog accompanied by his secret service agents. Someone is there with me protecting me. I turn around and poke fun at them “come on lads pick up the pace” and I start running faster. Everything fades to black once more.

Now I’m in another place and there are people there. I can’t recall their faces but I know in my heart they are the divine creators of the Universe and all that is within. They speak to me without words, telepathically communicating with me. All of the fear that I had about leaving this world begins to subside. They confide in me a secret that human beings have been trying to uncover for thousands of years – the meaning of life.

The Universe is a giant machine that is perfect in design. It is a super sophisticated mechanism that produces limitless energy, compressing time like some divine piston on its awesome down stroke. The mathematics and calculations used to create this machine are infallible; the Universe is perfectly balanced. All is as it should, was and ever will be. When we die, the energy that is contained within our mortal coils goes to another place as nothing is ever wasted.

universeOf all of the energy this divine machine creates, human beings are the most perfect and the most ingenious. We are like a cancer that replicates infinitum; you can never eradicate us. We are a cycle of energy that never ceases, no matter what happens our frequency will continue to resonate throughout the Universe like ripples in a pond.

As all of this is explained to me by these godlike creatures I begin to feel more and more at peace. I no longer feel afraid of the death I was trying so desperately to avoid. I submit myself to the divine perfection of the Universe and lay there waiting for it to take my soul onto the next plain of existence. You know how in some documentaries they record months of video that is then sped up to play over a course of seconds, like watching a flower germinate from seed, sprout from the ground and bloom and eventually wither and die? It was just like that; decades of my existence compressed into seconds. I leave my body and I watch it shrivel, decay and eventually turn to dust that gets blown away like the sands of time.

I am dead.

keep-calm-because-i-am-deadExcept I’m not, because shortly after I get yanked back to reality at warp speed; kinda like when you’re in a really deep sleep and some stupid whore wakes you up by tickling the bottoms of your feet because you’re passed out cold after a weekend of drug fueled sex and she decides she doesn’t want to be in your apartment on her own and can’t wake you up any other way. Or something.

So here I am sitting on the edge of this paddy wagon looking up at a male and a female Police officer and they ask me what drugs I’ve taken. I laugh diabolically and say “all of em!” The male Police officer casts me a withering stare and then asks “so why are you naked?” I look down and realise at this point I’m regaled in nothing but my birthday suit and a dog tag necklace my mama gave me. “Umm I dunno, I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” I had no idea where I was, how I had got there or what was happening. I certainly didn’t know why I was nuded up to the max.

Apparently I had been crawling along a major arterial road naked and a car almost hit me and called 000. I had grazes and bits of skin missing from all over me (apart from my face and my genitalia, I guess even when you’re hallucinating out of your fuckin mind you still somehow know to protect your face and your nuts!) and was pretty disoriented. I was still tripping balls and after coming out the other side of a near death experience I didn’t know what the shit was going on.

The cops were pretty cunty and obviously weren’t there to help. I asked for some water because I was thirsty and a blanket to cover my nakedness but all they were concerned with was to keep questioning me about drugs. I told them I wasn’t saying another word and despite me not being aggressive they opted to handcuff me and throw me in the back of the paddy wagon naked to take me to the hospital rather than putting me in the ambulance that was there standing by. Cunts.

Initially when I got in the back of the paddy wagon it still felt like there was another entity that was there protecting me, like I wasn’t alone. I started laughing like a maniac, quite amused at the predicament I was in. But as I bounced around with my hands shackled behind me I started to feel terror; these guys weren’t cops they were some kind of impostors taking me off to harvest my organs and I would soon wake up slumbering in a bathtub full of ice with my fuckin kidneys gone!

I started making a ruckus and beating on the walls of the cop car screaming for help. Through the narrow frosted slot of window I could see familiar lights and landmarks, I was close to home. This somehow made it worse as I was being taken further and further away from where I live. The female cop kept getting on the radio telling me to calm down. Fuck you bitch I want out!

Finally we get to the hospital and even though I’d been there before it still felt like some kind of elaborate, covert operation where my heart would soon be beating inside some old oil tycoon’s body in Texas. They let me out of the paddy wagon and I ask to be uncuffed, I tell them I don’t want to hurt anyone I just want to go home. The male Police officer takes the cuffs off me and they finally give me a blanket to warm me up and cover my junk.

There is a bunch of hospital staff there waiting; man this organ harvesting operation is big! How many people are in on it? The effects of the LSD still have a hold of me and I am resisting as they try and strap me to a bed to take me inside. I’m looking at the orderlies faces and they are morphing and stretching like some kind of monsters. In hindsight they were just ugly pricks and the acid was exaggerating that, but at the time it was terrifying. Am I being taken to an unused part of the hospital to be cut open like a stuck pig? It wasn’t until one of the female nurses tried to pacify me that I finally calmed down. She had kind eyes and promised they weren’t trying to hurt me; I was just being restrained until they got me inside and it would be OK.

As I was wheeled into the hospital, finally the fog of the psychedelic substance I had ingested was lifted and the thought occurred to me – this is actually happening! I wasn’t dead and I wasn’t the victim of an illicit organ harvesting operation, I’d just had too much acid and had gone for one hell of a rollercoaster ride through a part of myself that I didn’t even know existed. Everything was gonna be alright.

rollercoasterI had found the answer to a question people will go their whole lives without answering and I no longer fear death. Because I now know that after I leave this place my essence is going somewhere else, death isn’t the end. I’m not doomed to an eternity of darkness like I previously thought. The only thing I fear now is not living my current life to the fullest; not leaving an indelible mark on this world before I move onto the next.

For those interested, here are a couple of sources where people have come to the same conclusion – albeit it without having to go on the acid trip of a lifetime to get there:

I’m not sure I’ll ever take acid again. Not because I’m scared to (although the experience was about as hectic as it gets on any mind altering substance!) but because for me it has always been a learning tool. Every time I went on a ‘trip’ I learned something about myself and the Universe in general. I don’t think there’s anything else that substance can teach me now. I have the most amazing answer to the most amazing question that a person can ask themselves.

But hey – shit happens when you party naked.

shit happens 2


Work is for the Weak

When you’re a kid you have all these dreams about what you wanna do and who you wanna be when you grow up. A 7 year old always wants to do some cool shit like be a fuckin pirate, an astronaut, a karate expert or a pop star. Unfortunately life has a way of slowly but surely molding you into a mindless automaton; doing something you never considered doing and being someone you never dreamed of being – just so that you can pay the bills.

When I was a kid my dream was to be like Matt Trakker out of an animated kid’s show called M.A.S.K. For those who never saw it (either being too young or having a fanny) M.A.S.K was about a multi-millionaire businessman who ran a successful corporation by day and went around with his buddies wearing super-powered masks and cruising around in kick-ass vehicles that transformed into other vehicles (a motorcycle that turns into a fuckin helicopter? Sign me up!) to defend the world from bad dudes by night. It also had an awesome theme song:

As I got older the urge to be a high tech vigilante died down and by the time I finished high school the only thing that interested me was making film and television. And while most of the responsibility falls on my shoulders as to why that hasn’t happened (yet!), society can suck up some of the blame as well. I mean after all, if I didn’t have all these bills to pay then I would be free to do as I damn well pleased wouldn’t I?

And let’s be frank, work sucks. If you aren’t doing what you love then really you’re just going through the motions. Society says that’s what’s expected of you so that’s what most people do, with a small percentage who don’t give a fuck living on the fringes (dole bludgers and crazy survivalist cunts who dwell in the hills eating roadkill and having secks with their good looking cousins) and the rest who were strong enough to go for the W and get paid handsomely for doing what they love. It’s not even work for those people, their worst days at “work” are better than the best days of someone who doesn’t give a fat toss about what someone else is paying them to spend a third of their day doing. They say only the strong survive, but that’s bullshit, even the most retarded weaklings amongst us generally keep on kicking.

Only the strong THRIVE.

Let’s have a closer look at this soul sucking exercise called having a job.


Applying for jobs is kind of like having sex with a fat ugly girl. You probably told a few lies to get there, you definitely gave up some of your dignity and now you realized that you shouldn’t have listened to your mates who told you to nail the bitch cos that’s what dudes are supposed to do. Or maybe you don’t realise and never will. Maybe you’ll be riding that fugly behemoth for the rest of your days, all the while hating that you’ve got your knob stuck in something that looks like Jabba the Hutt but never quite having the strength to pull out and go get some Princess Leia ass instead.


From the embellishments that you put on your CV to get your foot in the door, to the lies that you tell in the interview, going for a jobski is almost as soul crushing as doing the job itself. But you go through that dignity destroying process because a) society tells you that’s what a good citizen does (work) and b) the way society is inherently designed you require money to survive (unless you’re one of the aforementioned ‘survivalist’ dudes who’s eating ratburgers for dinner haha).

Imagine if you were 100% honest during job interviews. “Tell me about a time you had to deal with a difficult customer and how did you handle it?” “Well I do recall a situation where I sold a mate of mine half an ounce of weed and he rang me up complaining that the quality was up to shit. So I told the cunt that if he didn’t like it he could buy off the junkies down the road who ripped him off last time and he was back the next day to buy more off me”. “What would you say are the three things you are strongest at?” “Well I can suck down a lot of bong hits before it fazes me, like seriously you’d be in a coma if you had as many cones as I do on a Saturday night. I can also eat pussy like I’m a German Shepherd wearing scuba gear and I’m pretty darn good at pirating shit off the Internet, especially hard to find Eskimo midget porno.”




If you thought that applying for a job was soul devouring than that’s just an appetiser compared to the main course of fecal matter you’re about to feast upon. At least in a job interview you only have to wear a mask to disguise who you really are for an hour tops. Once you bullshit your way into that job, you’re expected to keep that mask on for the rest of your time there, 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, 48 weeks a fuckin year.

Everyone acts slightly different depending on the situation, different faces for different places. But a work situation is probably the most far removed from your essential self, especially if you work in an office environment. You are expected to bury who you really are in order to fit in with all the other sheep. The minute you start showing aspects of your personality that aren’t in line with how you’re expected to act in an office and you’ll be handing in your door pass and cleaning out your drawers very shortly after.

Personally, I find it very hard to keep up this façade. I manage it for a little while but soon enough my guard comes down, the inappropriate jokes begin to fly, I start coming in late to work and find myself against better judgment telling the new trainee that I reckon she’s looser than a sloppy bucket of custard (on her first day mind you, props to Ainslie for being a good sport).

Subsequently I’ve got the chop from a bunch of jobs. And never because of performance issues, I could do them shits with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back while I’m getting cornholed by two dudes in the basement of an antique shop. It’s always because I did or said something that didn’t fit in with some asshole’s ideal of what is acceptable workplace behaviour.

At this point in my life I’ve finally come to the realisation that I’m just not cut out for wearing a mask for a third of my day. That I’m way too awesome to pretend to be someone else. That life is too damn short to be wasting it punching keys on my computer to make money for some other motherfucker. That I hate doing what I consider to be work, so I’m gonna have to make a concerted effort to be the person I dreamed to be when I finished high school and start writing some fucked up shit to blow some geezers mind when they turn on their TV.

Most people are embarrassed when they get the arse from a job. I wear my sackings like a badge of honour, like merit badges on a boy scouts uniform. Recently I managed to lose a job within 4 days of being hired, being told simply that they didn’t think I was “the right fit” for the role. While personally I think there should be some sort of fuckin prize for managing to get shitcanned in less then a week of being hired (a new personal record!), I have to give it to them – I’m not at all the right fit for their shitty job.

I’m much better than that and so are you.



If you hate your job, love the movie Office Space and are picking up what I’m putting down then now is the time to make a change in your life. Now is the time to get back to that idealistic teenager who wanted to be somebody before the world slyly positioned you into being somewhere you never wanted to be.

I won’t lie to you, it’s gonna be fucking hard. You’re gonna have to come home and work after 8 hours of being at work. You’re gonna have to sacrifice some shit; watching TV, jacking (or jilling) off, going out with your mates on the weekend and getting off your balls (or flaps), whatever it takes. For anything worthwhile there’s gonna be an opportunity cost you’ll have to pay.

But that price will never be as high as sacrificing your life to do something you don’t care about, kissing people’s asses you don’t like and enduring the suicidal thoughts that only occupy your mind when the alarm clock goes off at 7am in the morning. You don’t want to look back at your life and say “well shit, those last 50 years really sucked harder than a she-male hooker on her fifth bout of collagen injections” do you?

The bad news is time flies. The good news is, you’re the pilot. Start flying your plane towards your dream job now before it’s too late.

Work is for the weak, only the strong thrive.

The Politics of Dancing

dance floorIf you don’t like music, you don’t have love in your heart. There’s something wrong with you. You could see a doctor, but until we have the medical technology to perform personality transplants or soul transfusions you’re pretty much fucked. So when I meet someone who isn’t passionate about music (and albeit dancing) I instantly feel sorry for them. Dancing is the ultimate form of physical expression outside of fucking. And that can only be done with a maximum of like three other people (maybe a few more if you have a big bag of cocaine and a jar full of Viagra if you’re a male, or a penchant for double penetration if you’re female), whereas dancing can be done in groups of hundreds, even thousands of people.

So what is it that makes us dance? Why are some people naturally gifted while others gyrate like an epileptic adversely affected by strobe lighting? How come some people will bravely sashay onto a dance floor the very first time they go clubbing or go to a music festival, while others will shyly look on, fearful of being judged by the mob if their rug cutting maneuvers aren’t up to scratch?


drumsDance has certainly been an important part of ceremony, rituals, celebrations and entertainment since before the birth of the earliest human civilizations. While Dance history is difficult to determine because dance does not often leave behind clearly identifiable physical artifacts that last over the millennia, archaeology delivers traces of dance from prehistoric times such as the 9,000 year old Bhimbetka rock shelter paintings in India and Egyptian tomb paintings depicting dancing figures circa 3300BC.

Human beings probably danced even before there was a word for it. Rhythmic bodily movement is instinctive. It connects people, even if unconsciously, to the rhythms of nature. Further scientific study indicates that dance, together with rhythmic music and body painting, was designed by the forces of natural selection at the early stage of human evolution as a potent tool to put groups of human ancestors in a battle trance, a specific altered state of consciousness. In this state people lost their individual identity and acquired a collective identity, they became a part of something greater than the sum of its individual parts. I know I often feel the same way when I’ve eaten a bunch of LSD and am working up a sweat with a room full of strangers at 2am in a nightclub. When I dance I become part of the music and the music becomes part of me.

I can almost imagine cavemen from a time before time existed lighting fires outside of their caves and beating on drums while thousands of them move in synchrony to the rhythm of the beat, a prehistoric rave if you will. According to new research, the ability to dance may have also been a factor in survival for our prehistoric ancestors, who used their moves to bond and communicate with each other when times were tough.

A study published in a recent issue of the Public Library of Science’s genetics journal, suggests that, as a result, today’s creative dancers actually share two specific genes. Both genes are associated with a predisposition for being good social communicators.

Scientists believe this gave early humans who were well coordinated and rhythmic a distinct evolutionary advantage. This advantage extended not only to effective communication amongst our species, but also to the man’s ability to hook up with a fine ass cavewoman. Which brings me to my next topic…


dirty dancingFor as long as dancing has been going on, a big part of the ritual is attracting a member of the opposite sex. Similar to the mating dances of many birds, insects and other animals, humans of both sexes have been using dance to attract one another throughout the ages. I know that there’s nothing that makes my balls wetter than a woman who really knows how to move her ass so I think it’s fairly safe to assume that women feel the same way about men. It seemed to work for John Travolta in one of my favourite films of all time – Saturday Night Fever

Despite coming from a totally different era of night club dancing than myself, I’ve always thought that Travolta was the fuckin man in that scene. First he casts the infinitely fuckable Fran Drescher aside because she’s a total drag to dance with. I can totally sympathise there, when you know how to cut some serious rug the last thing you want is to be weighed down by someone who doesn’t – regardless of how hot they are. Next thing you know the dance floor obediently clears to give him some space to work his magic, based off the dialogue from his friend’s characters he’s been taking the club over like this for months. You can just tell that the beautiful women gazing at him in awe from the side of the floor have pussies so wet you could drown a toddler in their panties.

So why do women find men who can dance so appealing? Certainly there’s a reasonable correlation to be made with the guy’s ability to coordinate his body to the rhythm of the music to how well he’s going to play a woman’s vagina like a violin when they go home together after the club shuts. But there are other more scientific evolutionary reasons as well that need to be taken into account.

According to Dr Peter Lovatt of Hertfordshire University (also known as ‘Dr Dance’) “Beautiful women of high genetic quality with symmetrical features have been shown to innately select men with equally high-quality genetic features.” Other researchers have found that men judged to be better dancers tended to have a higher degree of body symmetry, a factor that has been linked to overall attractiveness and health in other research. The researchers speculate that higher body symmetry might also indicate better neuromuscular coordination. This may influence dance ability since attractive dances can be more rhythmic and more difficult to perform. While most people don’t go around measuring and comparing body parts of potential mates, it’s thought that we pick up on these cues subconsciously. So it seems a large part of it is actually genetic instinct; women (who tend to be pickier than men when it comes to choosing a partner) perceive guys who can dance well as being healthier specimens to mate with than guys who cannot.

Wily bitches.


24 hour party people

Having been burning the midnight oil at both nightclubs and music festivals for some time now, I’ve noticed all manner of characters that frequent both. Here’s a brief run down on some of the types of people you’ll find reaching for the lasers safe as fuck on any given Friday / Saturday night:

The Person Who Actually Knows How To Dance And Is Making Everyone Else Look Bad (aka the David Elsewhere)

Generally there’s always one person out in the middle of the dance floor who looks like a scene out of a ‘Step Up’ movie. They might be naturally gifted, they might have been honing their craft in the privacy of their bedroom for 15 years but whatever the case they make it all look so effortlessly easy and are a constant source of angst for those too shy to get up and dance and others who give it a go but for whatever reason are about as coordinated as diarrhoea.

Like David ‘Elsewhere’ Bernal:

The Chinstroker

Nobody really knows why The Chinstroker attends EDM shows, for he has a severe allergic reaction to dancing or enjoyment. He can generally be found standing in the crowd, arms crossed with his hand gently stroking his imaginary beard while he intensely gazes at the DJ. The Chinstroker is an expert at knowing exactly which remix is being played by which producer on which label and is a fountain of knowledge when it comes to electronic music.

Unfortunately all efforts to explain to The Chinstroker as to why dancing is the ultimate form of appreciation for dance music will fall on deaf ears and he will continue his eerie style of silent trainspotting in the middle of the dance floor.

The Aggressive Song Requester

Apparently this person does not own an iPod or have access to a radio, because their one goal in going to a club is to dance right next to the DJ booth, screaming out requests for a particular song over and over and over. The thing that’s weird about it is these people are never requesting tunes that are in line with the type of music that’s being played by the DJ at the time or even any of the track selectors playing that night. It will always be some commercial clap trap that has no place on any self respecting dance floor. Everyone will be grooving nicely to some funky house music while this muppet is screaming for Kesha ‘Tik Tok’ to be played.

Usually takes the form of a fairly attractive 19 year old girl who has an I.Q only slightly higher than her shoe size.

The Couple Who Might Be Having Sex On The Dance Floor

Dancing at a crowded club can be kind of stressful. It’s hot and sweaty and people are throwing elbows and spilling drinks all over the fuckin place. So it can be tempting to spot an empty pocket of the dance floor and move over there to claim it as your own. Beware though, because that corner’s empty for a reason. There’s either a suspicious substance on the floor, or there’s a dude ambitiously finger banging some drunken slart in which case there soon will be a suspicious substance on the floor.

Take pictures to upload onto ‘Embarrassing Nightclub Photos of the Week’ but do so at a safe distance to avoid any ah splashback.

The Roving Grinder (aka the Humpster)

This guy roams around the dance floor, casually bobbing his head to the music in between crudely thrusting his drug fuelled erection into the backside of unsuspecting women on the dance floor. The Roving Grinder is a numbers man, often seeking to set a lewd grinding record until he eventually hits the jackpot and humps some broad that’s had one too many pingers and will actually respond favourably to this kind of reprehensible behaviour.

A true romantic in every sense of the word.

Why You Should Embrace the Word Nigger

chappelle white supremacist

The word “neger” (obviously derived from the word “negro” which is Spanish for “black”) was first documented in America in 1619 to describe African slaves being brought over to work in the Americas. However, it had no negative connotations until the 1900’s and was considered the appropriate term for black people until the mid to late 1800’s. The stigma attached to the word grew as it became less acceptable to even say, much less direct it at a person.

There aren’t too many words in the English language that are as polarising as the word ‘nigger’ (or more commonly nowadays ‘nigga’ thanks to hip hop culture). If you’re a white person and you drop the ol’ N-bomb in a crowd then people start running scared like you’d dropped a real bomb. The word is considered to be such a no-no that a lot of people abbreviate it to “the N word”, which is beyond retarded. Let’s hear a word from one of our sponsors on the subject:

I like this bit that Louis did because I feel much the same way about the word ‘cunt’ as I do the word ‘nigger’. It’s quite a rarity that I would ever use the word cunt to describe a vagina. Cunt is a term I reserve purely for other human beings. This cunt, that cunt, that ugly cunt, that fat cunt, etc. When one of my friends calls me one of the first questions I usually ask is “what are you up to cunt?” To the extent that the word is such a big part of my vocabulary, that when I go on a date with a woman for the first time one of the first questions I ask her is “so how do you feel about the word cunt?” If she screws up her face and says it’s a horrible word and she doesn’t like it, than I think to myself “well you’re a bit of a dumb cunt” and run away when she goes to the bathroom. If she smiles and says she uses it all the time then we have a winner. How could I have a relationship with someone who gets offended by a word I use so frequently? It would be a disaster!


So while the word nigger isn’t as much of a part of my lexicon as the word cunt, it’s still an old favourite and gets used regularly. There are a few reasons for this. One is because when I was young I listened to a lot of hip hop music where the word was used liberally. I also watched a lot of what my dad distastefully calls “black films” which were comedies with you guessed it – black people in them. Some of my favourite stand-up comedians were guys like Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy who used the word all the time and often to great comedic effect. Later on came dudes like Dave Chappelle who also used the word nigger in a lot of his skits, so some of my fondest memories of laughing my sphincter off were related to the word nigger. For instance:

Another reason I like to use the word nigger is because I’m pretty against racism. That’s right, I like to use one of the most racist terms with one of the most heinous etymologies imaginable to combat racism. The word is inextricably linked with violence and brutality on black psyches and derogatory aspersions cast on black bodies. No degree of appropriating can rid it of that blood soaked history I agree. But by using it as a form of comedy (and often aimed at people who aren’t actually black!) I am effectively debasing the power of the word to be used as a racial slur. Like Louis CK said in his stand-up routine, there’s no such thing as bad words – that’s just bullshit propagated by PC fucktards with half a brain. The more negative attention and energy you give towards something – the more you empower it.

bad juju

Context is everything. Do I refer to black people as being niggers? All the time. Am I doing so because I can’t stand black people or think I’m better than them? Assuredly not. I’ve had many black friends in my lifetime and from different parts of the globe. I once punched a kid in the face and knocked him into a swimming pool because he called my Sri Lankan friend Jono ‘Black Magic’ and told him to show him some tricks. The trick that young man got shown was a good smack right in the kisser and deservedly so. I’ve listened to music made by black people all my life, supported black athletes and enjoyed many films and TV shows made and starring black people. Hardly the actions of someone who hates black people or thinks he’s somehow superior to them. But I reserve the right to use any word I see fit, the idea that a certain race of people have ownership of a word in itself seems pretty racist to me.

Now obviously there’s a time and a place for everything and you need to pick your battles wisely. I wouldn’t rock up to a bunch of black dudes playing street ball in Harlem and say “What’s up my niggas?” I’m sure that probably wouldn’t end well for me. Unless I was with my own crew of hardcore niggas in which case it would be totally fine. The other black dudes would probably respect the fact that as the sole white guy in a group of straight up gangstas I must’ve done some crazy ass shit to impress the niggas I was with and am not to be fucked with.

But to my friends (black or white) I say it all the time. They know me well enough to know that I’m not a racist and that I make fun of everyone equally. Niggers, Jews, Wetbacks, Slopes and especially white people – no one is safe from my derision. In a country like Australia with so many different ethnicities and cultures it’s hard not to appreciate some solid racial stereotype humour.

To me, PC morons that parrot on about “casual attitudes” towards racism (referring to racist jokes at any rate – not actual racial vilification or discrimination) are living in fear and are part of the problem. They are the ones causing discontent between races by spreading that fear and constantly making reference to a pink elephant that is only in the room if you imagine it to be so. Scarily enough, they think they are the ones in the right here – I call it the ‘White Knight Syndrome’. Constantly rushing off to defend someone who needs no protection just so they can huff their own farts and feel good about themselves, the worst kind of arselickers in my opinion.

So to sum up, you don’t have to be black to be called a nigger.

But it helps.

Buying the Cow

buying tha cow

There’s a saying that goes “why buy the cow when you get the sex for free?” Or something along those lines. Well it seems like plenty of people are pretty keen on buying themselves a bovine with a lot of hoo haa recently on the Internet regarding the gay marriage debate. One minute I’m chortling at totally inappropriate memes and the next I’m seeing so many equals’ signs I thought I’d dropped acid at a math convention and was losing my shit.

Oddly enough, I feel the same way about marriage as I do about homosexuality itself – I’m pro-choice. I don’t want to bum you and you don’t want to bum me (you probably do let’s be honest) but I’m happy for everyone else to have the freedom to bum (or not to bum) anyone they choose. So whilst I personally don’t care to be married any time soon, I’m not fussed if other people would like to do so – gay or not. People should be free to do whatever they damn well please as long as it’s not harming anyone else. Hence why I’ve never understood the anger towards gay people, I mean isn’t screwing like one of the only things we can do as humans that doesn’t affect anyone else? How does two dudes doing pushups in long grass or a couple of lesbians scissoring until their thighs chafe affect your life?

I’ve never really understood the big deal behind the ritual of marriage either so I was kinda surprised to see how strongly so many other people on the Internetz felt about this hot issue. So let’s delve into this topic a little bit deeper shall we?

A History of the Ball and Chain

ball and chain

The first recorded evidence of marriage contracts and ceremonies dates back to over 4000 years ago in Mesopotamia (which used to be Iraq before America shelled the joint for its oil). Back in those ancient times the whole idea of marriage was to preserve your family’s power and get some new goodies into the bargain. Kings and other various movers and shakers would marry off their daughters to forge alliances, procure land and produce legitimate heirs. Even amongst the plebs women had little say over whom they married. The main purpose of marriage at the start was for the blushing bride to fart a few fetuses’ out of her womb, as implied by the Latin word ‘matrimonium’ which is derived from ‘mater’ (mother). Marriages prevented just any prick from coming along and asserting rights to the property of a man he may claim to call “daddy.”

But marriage has changed over the centuries, as it should, since it was created to fill a societal need – not a religious one – and marriage must adapt to society’s ongoing needs. Marriage serves society, not the other way around. A new need has arisen in our time – the need for legal, governmental recognition and protection of two people of the same gender. Religion has absolutely nothing to do with that.

Yet the biggest opponent of gay marriage is you guessed it – the church.

Interference by the God Squad

God Squad

The Bible doesn’t approve of the pushing of the poo or drinking out of the furry cup and since religion (Catholicism specifically) has its hooks into the whole marriage deal in a big way, by supporting gay marriage it would seem like they were supporting homosexuality which would in effect contravene their petty beliefs. The worst thing about this is that it wasn’t until the 12th Century that Roman Catholic theologians and writers referred to marriage as a sacrament, a sacred ceremony tied to experiencing God’s presence. So because some deluded old fart decided after three millennia of people marrying that all of a sudden it was an act intrinsically linked with the imaginary friend for adults, Toby and Steve are shit out of luck if they want to be recognised by society as life partners, same for Rhonda and Vivian (token names for homo’s and lesbo’s courtesy of

Pressed on why they believe gay marriage to be wrong, the churchies come at it from a few angles. Firstly, it’s morally wrong. Probably not as wrong as allowing priests to sodomise choir boys for hundreds of years and spending considerable effort in covering it up so the abuse can continue though, huh? For another, it’s against God. What, the same God who made dudes in biblical times kill their sons to prove their belief in him? The same God that will apparently cast me into the fires of hell for eternity because I don’t believe in him, yet will send some filthy paedophile off to heaven for orange mocha frappucinos because he suddenly “finds” God and repents before he croaks? Would be a shame to upset that righteous fellow now wouldn’t it? And lastly, the religious folk don’t agree with homosexuality because apparently it’s “unnatural”. Considering that both humans and animals of the same gender have been fucking one another well before religion came along, I know which of the two I find to be a bit out of the ordinary.

The Human Condition

So why are gay people so keen to get married? I mean sure marriage has a few perks but personally I don’t think that’s what it’s about. It’s more so the human condition of always wanting what you can’t or don’t have. You have a nice Toyota but you’re dying to have a Porsche like your neighbours. You have an amazing girlfriend who loves you but you can’t stop thinking about screwing the arse off her hot best friend. The nice boy who’s keen on you gets treated like his name is Stanley, whereas you’d drop your panties in a second for the rude prick who isn’t interested in you in the slightest.

You can’t have the gay marriage so you want the gay marriage.

What’s so great about being married? It certainly doesn’t have much to do with the pursuit of happiness, my parents have been married almost forty years and they’re fuckin’ miserable! Shouldn’t gay people have the right to be just as miserable? Maybe the term “gay” (which used to mean happy once upon a time) was coined precisely because they were all just having a good old time living in sin and bumping uglies instead of arguing over what to watch on TV and waking up to screaming children on a Sunday morning! Maybe if we let homosexuals marry they’ll no longer be “gay” they’ll be “morose”. “Oh look at that morose couple kissing in public, how disgusting!” “I’m not homophobic at all, I have plenty of morose friends I’ll have you know”. Haha.


So while I don’t actively support gay marriage, I guess being a pro-choice kind of dude I’m for it. Hell, I’m even for marriage with animals and inanimate objects as well. If you want to marry a monkey and have monkey-human hybrid children that you train to be your monkey butlers and serve you cold beverages while you live in the trees, that’s your prerogative. If you want to engage in holy matrimony with a handsome Rhododendron plant and get sap everywhere – go nuts.

Until your chimp bride bites me and gives me Rabies or your plant husband starts shedding leaves on my lawn that I have to rake up, then I’m happy for people to do whatever it is they wanna do.

I say

if it feels good