Sunday, 27 July 2014

My Shitty Neighbours Part One: Mustang Sally

As a foreword to this post, I'm going to come right out and admit that I am not especially suited for urban living. I hate people and think most of them are douchebags of one variety or another. As far as I'm concerned, we are still primates barely out of the trees, distracted by fancy toys. 

I happen to live in a neighbourhood that is quiet (mostly), older (my house celebrates its centenary this year) and somewhat economically depressed (it's not surprising to find hookers on the corner three blocks south). As a result, several of the homes on our street are rental properties. I hate rental properties because, for the most part, the people who live in them are not invested in their environments and are generally gigantic asspains. I have, in the past, bitched long and loud about the dollar-store douchebags that specifically inhabit the basement directly across the street. First was Mohamed and his three cars and his propensity for throwing his garbage into the street. He was eventually replaced by Abdully, who was equally annoying (and, as it turns out, friends with Mohamed).

(And don't forget Moby Dick, who no longer lives across the street, but still comes by occasionally to visit the old lady and spit on the street.)

Currently residing in the basement of this joint is a fucking crevice tool who drives a massive, brand new Ford Mustang with an engine that can be heard all over the neighbourhood whenever he fires it up. It is clearly a violation of the noise bylaw passed a few years ago, largely to address the noise pollution issue of motorcycles on Whyte Avenue. I am tempted to report him, but the cops would have to be here when he starts it up, and the chances of that are pretty slim. You want to know what time this twunt-plunger goes to work in the morning? SIX THIRTY. You wanna know how I know that? Because I hear him fire that junk heap up every fuckin' morning at that time, and then I hear him pull away for at least two blocks.

I don't understand the need for a car this loud. A long-standing theory is that this vehicle is indicative of a certain insecurity regarding the size of his thrill drill. If the hyper-masculinity of the vehicle is in direct proportion to his inadequacy, then this ass cactus has a dick so inverted, it's gotta be a mangina.

Hence, I have dubbed him Mustang Sally.

I  have never seen this mouth-breather with a woman. That's hardly surprising. The car is obviously a substitute for a significant other. In fact, I don't think Mustang Sally has ever been laid outside of a family reunion. He's just too fucking pathetic. I mean, we are talking about the kind of cacpygean microphallus that, in true Fast and Furious style, pulls doughnuts in the middle of the street in order to park his douchemobile.

I hate this guy and I fantasize about a litre of Coke in his gas tank or a potato in the exhaust pipe. I would never do these things, though, and if there is a positive aspect to the old rental property quandary, it's that eventually, the fucktards move on to be replaced by other fucktards.

Next on Douchebaggery Abounds, another of my charming neighbours.
 

Thursday, 24 July 2014

Fifty Shades of Shit

Today, when the Fragrant Missus and I came home from work, we discovered that two of the three didiots (that would be Nipper and Dieter specifically) had knocked over the garbage can. A week's worth of moldy food, used sanitary napkins, orange peels and egg shells littered the main floor from the kitchen to the front door. The smell was horrific. It was like Scooter had expressed his anal glands onto a bloated, week-old corpse covered in pig shit rotting under the relentless Saharan sun.

And it still smelled better than the trailer for Fifty Shades of Gray.

It's true that there are rare cases when a movie is made that surpasses the novel on which it is based. What Dreams May Come, for example. But, although I have never read the book (I refuse to dignify it with the appellation "novel"), I'm going to go out on a pretty sturdy limb here and say that this movie is going to be an excrescence.

How can it not? The material off of which it is working is pure, unadulterated shite. The writing is pedestrian, juvenile and completely predictable. In short, it is a literary Lincoln log. I am told that millions of women have read Fifty Shades of Grey and were titillated. Who are these millions of women? Who finds the story of an emotionally unavailable prick ("I control everything", "I don't do romance") performing BDSM on a na├»ve woman with obvious self-esteem issues exciting? Besides Laureen Harper, I mean.

In discussing the (inexplicable) popularity of the book with a friend, I was told that Fifty Shades of Grey was responsible for getting women to read again. This was said in the same solemn tone used to explain that J.K. Rowling got kids reading with her Harry Potter series (another book/books I haven't read. Sue me). Seriously? Women reading junk about exploitive abuse by some controlling jerk-off and clinging to that dysfunctional relationship in the belief that their devotion to that dick will prevail and he will eventually love them as they deserve: this is something to celebrate?  

No.

This review sums up beautifully why I think Fifty Shades of Grey is a dangerous and irresponsible book. And the fact that some money-grubbing douchebag has grasped the opportunity to wring still more cash out of this by making a film out of it simply fills me with despair. What the actual fuck, people? I understand that there is no accounting for taste--this is why Chevy Chase and Julia Roberts still have acting careers. (Christ on a cracker, don't get me started on Kevin Costner's Robin Hood or Love, Eat Pray. As far as I'm concerned, both of those productions can be classified as bona fide butt burritos.)

For the love of all that is holy, ladies, wake up and raise your standards! Do not waste your hard-earned (but not as high as a man's) wage on this rectal soup. And just as an aside here--is BDSM really that titillating anymore? Really? I mean, in an era of cakefarts,  pony play and bukaki, bondage and a riding crop seem just a little tame, dontcha think?

Next on Douchebaggery Abounds, my fucktard neighbours.