Friday, 28 January 2011

The Alcoholic Dr Pepper

I don't know about you but I love Dr Pepper. I also love alcohol, but unfortunately Dr Pepper plus alcohol tastes like swill, so here's a cocktail I love that tastes almost identical to the real thing, yet contains no Dr Pepper. It's called the alcoholic Dr Pepper.

You will need the following ingredients.

 Pour some coke and some beer in equal measure into a glass. Top off to taste with Amaretto (I personally like Disaronno but it doesn't matter) and enjoy the cool taste of Dr Pepper with the cruel best friend that is intoxication.

Thursday, 27 January 2011

Romantic Dinner for One

Thursday is my favourite day. It's not the end of the week, but there's only one day left, so you can kick back a little. I did so with a Spanish omlette, some boiled potatoes, a salad, a bottle of white wine and redtube.

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

The Eddie Murphy Theory

Nowadays, when people hear the name Eddie Murphy, reactions tend to be neutral, perhaps bordering on negative. Unless you mention him in front of my mother, who will spurt a sentence full of swear words and synonyms of "idiotic".

However, there was a time when he was funny. Screw that, there was a time when he was the funniest, edgiest comedian around and he maintained this title right until 1996 when he was offered $16m to make this.

"Every bad decision I've made has been based on money. I grew up in the projects and you don't turn down money there. You take it, because you never know when it's all going to end. I made Cop III because they offered me $15 million. That $15 million was worth having Roger Ebert's thumb up my ass."

Now he's the only one laughing, because he gets paid millions to fart in fat suits, but today - the 27th January 2011 - let us remember him for the comic genius he was.

RIP, the Talented Mr Murphy. 

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Crime and Punishment

It's hard to defend drinking. Whereas obviously immoral acts such as having an affair or beating the youngest/most retarded kids in the neighbourhood when they attempt to knock on your front door and run away slower than the others are easy to get away with, the punishments for heavy drinking tend to arrive swiftly and frequently.

The most obvious punishment for me is mormon girls, and the fact that you have no chance whatsoever unless you stop drinking, stop smoking and pretend to believe in a load of old shit. Even then, you have to marry them to get to the goods, which is incredibly unfair as they are SO FUCKING HOT.

Then there's the hangover. I'm immune to them, thankfully, so you can all suck it and nurse your hangovers while I play Mario.

Thirdly, the worst punishment of all. Like many forms of torture, this relies mainly on humiliation. Since your brain function tends to be inhibited by the ingestion of grotesque amounts of alcohol (intentionally, obviously, as I've yet to meet anyone who drinks Long Island Ice Teas for pleasure), there is a tendency to do things which are fucking regrettable.

I now present to you a story, through the medium of jpeg.

Tuesday, 18 January 2011

You know what they call a Quarter Pounder with cheese in France?

I don't believe in horoscopes, destiny, palm reading or any other stupid Gypsy shit. That said, I don't believe in myself either as there's a chance I've got it all wrong: God might exist, smoking might actually cause lung cancer and Waterworld might be a masterpiece.

Even you, Kev.
This is why, when on Halloween destiny seemed to pull my hair and shout in my ear to grab my attention, I decided to give it a chance. I was dressed as Vince Vega from Pulp Fiction, with my friend dressed as Mia Wallace. In the queue outside the club, I seem to remember laughing at another girl dressed as Mia in a fat suit but she mistook my mockery for flirtation and smiled back. I realised then that this could be a sign and that I should pursue it, but given that I'm a shallow bastard, I spent all my money on drinks before I could stomach making my way over to her.

I don't remember what happened next but all of a sudden my friends had gone and I was sitting on a sofa with a plump Mia Wallace on my lap biting my face. Maybe she was hungry, I don't know, but it hurt and made my lips red like Lindsay Lohan's asshole. I realised then that the night was going to end badly if I didn't leave very quickly, so I told her I had to leave. She asked for my number but I told her I didn't know it and pretended to be too drunk to use my phone (not hard, as I pretty much was). However, I gave her my (real) name, assuming nothing would come of it.

The next day, I had a facebook message from the girl. I looked at her pictures and felt deeply disappointed in myself and destiny as a concept. In a way, I was right. Fuck Waterworld. The only good bit in the film is when that bitch and her daughter give Kevin Costner lip and he shaves their heads as punishment. No arguing, no warning, just straight for the barber scissors. I like his style.

The message unsurprisingly raised the possibility of us meeting up for dinner in London, a city in which neither of us lived and an activity I would rather sow up my anus and eat a kilo of Fibre Bran than partake in. I thought about my options:

1) Suicide
The final solution was a shade too far. While it nailed the point home and printing her email as a suicide note would have been a laugh, I felt I still had unfinished business.

2) Pretending to be gay
Unfortunately, I'd been bafflingly eager the night before. In  a way, it was professionalism and dedication to the concept of destiny, much like straight guys participating in gay porn. They get paid more so they guzzle down the viagra, pretend they're bumming a woman and hope to God their closeted fathers won't stumble across "Three's cum-pany".

3) "Hi. I feel like an asshole saying this after everything, but on Satuday I was on a break from my girlfriend. Today we decided to give things another chance and I really think that's the best plan. I don't think it's a good idea to meet up soon. You're very pretty but I want to make things work this time. Sorry."

Tuesday, 21 December 2010

A Bad Smell (Part 2)

As I said in my last post, I don't know if K was guilty or not. The girl (who he referred to as his sister to me and as his cousin to my housemate on seperate occasions) withdrew her accusation for some reason and the case was dismissed through lack of evidence.

Still, this was not our problem. Our problem was that we had an extra person living with us who wasn't contributing to rent and bill payments and who often made us late to university by spending unfair amounts of time in the bathroom in the morning. For someone who stank of mould, K took a ridiculous amount of showers. Maybe he bathed in mayonnaise. About once a week, he and our housemate would argue over his infidelities with other unattractive women and he would storm out the house with a little suitcase choking back tears and claiming "this is really it, this time. I love her, you know. I LOVE her" before returning half an hour later with fried chicken and prawn crackers. Eventually we stopped hoping as it was thoroughly demoralising wiping our friend's tears to then see her pick up the phone and refer to him as "babes".

Lacking the balls to kick him out by force (I'm a pussy and the girls are girls) we decided to resort to passive aggressive behaviour. Whenever he was in the shower, for example, we would fiddle with the boiler, turning it up to maximum power for a few seconds to burn him then turning it off completely so he wouldn't be able to continue washing.

I shaved my arse, sac and gooch with his electric razor and pissed onto his toothbrush whenever it crossed my mind to do so.

But the real beauty of our campaign was the postal blockade. Any letters addressed to him were secretly confiscated, read, then torn up and disposed of. I am most proud of one from his bank which warned him that he had entered his unarranged overdraft and would be charged £15 per day until the money was paid back. Of course, not having read the warning letter, he paid the maximum £150 per month the bank could charge him and found out the hard way from the ATM which never lies. Too far? Consider it rent.

Sometimes the ends justify the means.

Sunday, 19 December 2010

A Bad Smell (Part 1)

For some reason, when there's an elephant in the room, people tend to ignore it. After all, surely there's a reason for it being there and - if there isn't - what can you do about it? It's a fucking elephant.

I spent last year living with four friends and an elephant (which, for the sake of coherency, I will hereby refer to as K). K was the boyfriend of one of my housemates and somehow managed to move into our house and live there rent-free for an entire year.

I suppose at first we just assumed he was going to be living there for a few weeks at most and we didn't kick up a fuss about it for the sake of maintaining good relations with his girlfriend, who - at the time - was a good friend of ours. But days turned into weeks and weeks turned into a year.

Oh, did I mention he stank? Seriously, he smelt disgustingly of pubic sweat and cheese. The kind of smell that Creationists use as an argument for God's existence: only the almighty could create a smell this rancid. He smelt like the sweat between your penis and your balls after a hot day in the office.

I don't know why he smelt so bad, perhaps because he spent all day vegetating on the sofa watching daytime television and marinating in Cheetos dust.

I dread to think what his pubic region smelt like, but I'm going to have to because it reminds me of a story.

The girls all went to the cinema to watch Valentine's Day while I, bearing a grudge against most of the cast (seriously: Ashton Kutcher, Taylor Swift, Bradley Cooper, Jessica Alba, Emma Roberts and her cunt aunt Julia Roberts), stayed at home. The girls came home in a terrible mood, which I thought was because of the movie sucking, but it turns out K's girlfriend had received a phone call from K during the screening to say that he had been arrested. His girlfriend immediately swore he was innocent, but would not initially reveal what the crime was. As we were waiting in the living room for her to get home from the police station, we joked that he had been arrested on suspicion of something dirty like rape.

It was rape.

"But the girl is obviously lying. I know he didn't do it because - without going into too much detail - he came home to me that night and we did things know....I would have been able to tell if...I mean...I would know."

I think she was talking about fellatio, where the smell of another woman's vagina and blood is obviously a deal breaker for most women. Most women, however, are repulsed by nut musk so I really don't know if he did it or not.

It isn't, but rape is.

(To be continued)