Religious Meetings Are Just Funerals In Practise For The Real Deal.

Yawn..Morning, readers. How are we all today?

Tired? Dreading Monday?

Good stuff. I've got just the thing for you.

What is it, you may ask? 

The answer, dear reader, is simple: Church. Or rather, a story about it.

Before you race to the end of this post to hit me up with a raging comment detailing your newly found dislike of me due to my religious posting..Just hold on a moment, before you let your inner troll loose.

Unsurprisingly to those who know me, I would never try to convert someone to a religion. Fact is, I have quite the distaste for religion.

So no, I'm not trying to convert you, I'm regaling with one of my more recent churchly experiences. But first, you'll need a bit of background information:

I come from quite a religious family. In saying that, my mother is the main religious family member, whilst the rest of the family basically follow her lead in it all.

Me? I don't buy it.

There was a time when I rolled in it delightfully like a dog in shit, mainly right up to grade nine. After that, I veered away from it all pretty quickly, questioning the legitimacy of various biblical stories.

That's never stopped my parents from dragging me along to church and punishing me when I rebel against it all, though...Especially when I go about “corrupting” of the church's innocent youngsters..Tehehehe..;)

Anyway, back to the story. Today I was dragged along by my father (at my mother's bequest, of course) to a popular Christian group that meets once every few months, commonly known by the local community as “Men's Breakfast.”

On the way there, I realised that rather than fighting against going, perhaps going would achieve three things:

•  Give me something to laugh about with friends a few days later.

• Stop my parents and their religious nattering, at least for a little while.

• Give me something new to blog about.

And that brings me to the true beginning of my narration of “Men's Breakfast.”

First Impressions: A sea of bald and/or balding heads greeted me unenthusiastically from the door. Clearly, hair regrowth treatment is a foreign concept to Baptists and Anglicans alike.

Fifteen Minutes In: By now I'm offered food. As I start tucking into baked beans, a half scrambled egg and overcooked bacon unenthusiastically, I glance to my left and treat myself to the delightful view of an elderly man taking out his false teeth..He looks like he's about to drop off his perch at any moment.

Thirty Minutes In: If I hear the sentence “Jesus saved us” one more time, I think I'll start tearing out my hair. Then again, perhaps I've just discovered why most of the people in here are bald..

Forty Five Minutes In: I've taken to looking at the fingernails of the old people around me for entertainment. There are some real shockers here, that's for sure.

An Hour In: Okay, so my life is now changed forever. Changed forever in that I've lost an hour of it that I'll never get back.

 I think you've got the picture.

But why are so many old people religious? Well, judging from the smell of imminent death in that room, I'll go out on a limb and suggest that perhaps it's because they're not so far from the age in which the bible was written in the first place.

Conclusion: Old people like to congregate to celebrate their impending death, gumming their food together amid a chorus of “Jesus saved us.”

Religious congregations are just funerals in practice for the real thing – there's a reason they're always looking for new blood, and if you ask me, it's generally just because they want a good turnout for the real deal.

Guys And Girls Alike: Boobs, Miniskirts, Trimming The Hedge And Taming The One Eyed Monster – I’m Just About Sick Of It All!

It’s nearing the end of the Saturday morning, and we all know what that means.

 Oops. Oh right, I forgot, only I know that shit. 

You’re probably wondering what I’m on about right now, huh? Or, for those who know me personally, what I’m actually “on” might be a more appropriate question. Rest assured though, thus far the only substance I’ve taken thus far today is a cup of tea with honey.

 Saturday mornings are generally my prime time as far as ranting is concerned. So…What’s on the agenda today, you may ask?

 Fair question, I’ll allow it.

 Boobs, miniskirts, trimming the hedge and taming the one eyed monster.

 Nope, you didn’t misread it.

 Now, before you jump to the wrong conclusion and assume I’m about to throw you into the deep end of a long, pornographically revealing story involving incest, candles and a picture frame, I ask that you take a deep breath and read on.

 

 I promise that I’ll try not to soil your mind too much.

 Over the past few years, boobs have been something that have been continually in my face. Literally.

 They’re not necessarily there just to taunt me, they’re also there for a biological reason.

 But guess what? Personally, I don’t give a shit about the biological reason. I just want to look at and touch them.

 Yup, I want to stare at and touch boobs. If you’ve got a problem with that, you may as well put me in cuffs and put me into the cruiser right about now. If, however, you think that you and I may share a like-mindedness in this area, then I encourage you to read on. If you’re a girl and you think that I’m a creep, read on anyway, I may just surprise you.

 Incidentally, before I launch into a long-winded rant, have you ever wondered what boobs would say if they could talk? Personally, whenever I envision it, I picture them apologising to me.

 Okay, yeah, I’ll agree with you on that. That’s slightly creepy.

 But still, think about it. They’re not exactly going to be discussing the global financial crisis, are they? If anything, they’re most likely to say something along the lines of

 “Sorry we look so sad and droopy ”

 That’s okay, boobs. I understand. Shit happens from time to time, as I’ve told you numerous times before.

 Let me give you, the reader, a classic example about why, despite my love of boobs, I also hate them:

 Recently, I was talking to a friend of mine about boobs, (for the sake of anonymity, we’ll call him Jerry.) Jerry described a situation he’d been in a few days earlier that was just typical.

He and a friend were at a party. And, as often happens, drinking ensued. Now, it didn’t take long for a small argument to take place, and the dialogue went something like this.

 Jerry: John, I’ll do what I want, okay?

John: No dude, it’s not okay, you’re doing it all wrong.

~Random girl wades into the conversation~

Random Girl: John, let him do what he wants.

John: Okay.

 Now, why did John fail to listen to his best friend but manage to listen to Random Girl? Well, inside John’s head, dialogue such as this probably ensued:

 “He wants me to stop.”

-Monkeys are clapping-

“A girl wants me to stop. I’ll listen to her, because she has boobs.”

-Bubble pops-

 ..I mean really guys, what happened to the old “bros before hoes”?

 And that brings me back to my point. These days, guys are all too concerned with boobs that they’re losing perspective. Sure, they’re nice to look at..But letting them take over your day to day life is just stupid and irritating.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 ..And now for the ladies.

 Don’t worry, ladies – I haven’t forgotten you, either. As much as I’d like to, I’ve gotta admit..I’m pretty sick of you right now, especially the way you’ve taken it upon yourself to try and look “hot” at school.

 Girls, two main lessons for you that I want you to take away from this:

•  Rolling your sleeves up on that shirt of yours doesn’t make you look like a fairy princess. It makes you look like a prat.

• Rolling up your skirt to the extent that it’s camel-toe galore whenever a breeze picks up just isn’t working. You might have nice legs and it’s completely understandable that you want to show them off…But please – it’s a school, not a brothel.

 Every time you bend over, jump into a hug or sit down, you know that your assets are being flaunted to the world, this doesn’t mean that you have to or need to put them on display even further.

 I’m sick of those girls who decide not only to bring UP the ends of their skirts but the girls who’ve then taken the next step and decided to wear G-strings or ride up their underwear so far up their arse that it looks like they’ve got nothing on at all.

 I’m not going to mention any names, but for those of you that are reading, you likely know who you are better than I do.

 You may think I’m a pervert.

 Yeah, so what? I look. Isn’t that what you want me to do? Isn’t that why your dress is so short, why you wear G-Strings why you sport Victoria Secret bras?

 Exactly. So don’t go condemning me for it.

If I still seem like a pervert to you, I’ll tell you right now that I’m not. I’m not waiting for the chance to look at your body, nor do I have a particular wish to rape you; I’m just annoyed that you have to flaunt your shit at me every day.

Now, if you must wave your crotch to the world like a golden ticket, then please..PLEASE..Take it upon yourself to trim the hedge and give it some regular maintenance!

It’s one thing having to see your underpants, but it’s quite another to catch some hair hanging out of the side, staring at me like a lost puppy-dog in the window of a fucking pet shop. That’s just torture!

An experience that my aforementioned friend “Jerry” regaled to me the other day was a prime example of this. A girl sitting down on the floor in class, with everyone in view, decided it’d be a great idea to re-arrange her underwear.

Now, at this point, if you don’t know me personally and haven’t heard this story before, you may be thinking; “what’s wrong with that?”

 I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that.

 It’s wrong when she pulls her underwear to the side revealing to the world an untamed, hairy one-eyed monster.

 …SURROUNDED BY A FOREST THE SIZE OF THE FUCKING AMAZON!

 Jerry’s head was in a spin for hours to come. Blue-balls and hormones mixed with disappointment and anger. Thanks for that.

 I mean really girls, you drive me crazy, but not in the cute, lovey-dovey way. Instead, you drive me crazy in a way that makes me question your intelligence, capacity for rational thought and personality, not to mention your morals and compassion for the countless men you’re torturing while trying to look sexy.

 So, with that rant over, I think a little bit of credit is due. I couldn’t have completed this article without the helpful insight and storytelling of the infamous “Jerry” whose stories have dominated and supported many of the smiles of readers as they devour this, and many of my other articles.

 Readers, as always, I thank you for reading. If you like what you’ve seen so far, I encourage you to subscribe via email or manually stay tuned by checking in on my blog once or twice a week. I try to post fairly regularly!

So Here I Am. This Is Me.

So you’ve come across my blog.

There are three possibilities at this point: Either you happened across it unintentionally and you may or may not continue reading from this point on, you’re a friend who was directed here by me, or a friend of a friend sent you here and you’re only reading this to shut them up.

In all honestly, I don’t care how you got here. What I do care about is that
you fuck off right now 
stay on this page long enough to read the rest of this post.

Wait. Don’t leave just yet.

Okay, so maybe I was 
actually high when I started writing this
a little hasty.

But what’s the point of this blog? Well, I promise that it’s not religiously motivated, nor is it designed to try to
hook you up with my desperate friend 
sell you commercial products. Instead, I created it to share my opinions and (often sarcastic and/or extremely cynical) views on my life and wider society.

 But hey, shit happens to everyone…So why bother blogging about it?

My answer to that question is pretty simple: I don’t have anything better to do with my life.

By now, you’re probably wondering what I’m all about, am I right? To understand where I’m coming from, I think it’s important that you understand the basic foundation of my worldview:

I like to think of myself as an individual. An individual who cares about what society thinks, even if my only motivation to do that is so that I can find more flaws in people to complain about. Despite my cynical view when it comes to life, the majority of my time is spent motivating
women to have sex with me
myself to fit in with the flawed society around me day-to-day, observing and marveling at the stupidity of some people and the boobs genius of others (though the latter occurs all too rarely, these days.)

And that’s me: I don’t hate people, I just think that there are far too many of them – something that, if you keep up with my blog, it’s likely that you’ll notice over time.