A little rage comic I made at work, instead of doing actual work. I’m probably going to make more of these because I like them a lot. Check out www.9gag.com where all the rage comics on the interwebs live.
*N.B. This article has nothing to do with Skyrim. Sorry.
In the summer of 2008 I spent seven long weeks on the Isle of Skye as part of my field mapping dissertation for university. There were eight of us in total; me and seven of my favourite guys from the course, all battling through endless days of pissing, shitting and masturbating in forests, on hillsides and in lay-bys (N.B. I only peed. I keep the shitting and masturbating for Chat-Roulette). If I’m honest, I learned very little about geology during those long hours of standing in torrential rain getting mentally undressed by sheep whilst trying to write in a wet notebook with a blunt pencil. As time went on, however, I stopped hating and began to realise that this summer, although geologically unsuccessful, was quickly shaping up to be one of the best in history, and it’s all thanks to a tiny village with the most ridiculously beautiful view you will ever see.
Elgol is where my mapping area was located and where three of my uni friends, Beau, Luke and Mike were renting a flat from a local family. At this point we were on week three and I was beginning to get a little bit tired of actually doing work. The fact the sun had made appearance for the first time since we arrived did not help my mood, as all I wanted was a god-damn barbecue. I arrived at their flat ready to map, only to find that they weren’t even home so, after trying on all of their underwear and cleaning the toilet with their toothbrushes, I decided to go look for them. I eventually found them stepping off a fishing boat which had just participated in a random boat race in the middle of the loch. The boat belonged to Alistair, an almost mythical creature, who along with his wonderful wife Joanie, also owned the flat that the guys were staying in. Alistair had been feeding the boys whisky and prawns all morning and I could tell straight away that there would be no mapping for us that day. They got off the boat, handed me a can of Tennants and explained that today was the Elgol Gala and we were getting involved. All I could smell was beer, fishermen and barbecued meat – I was welling up. In fact I was moist pretty much everywhere.
What we didn’t know at the time was that participating in the Gala involved taking part in the Crofter’s Olympics, a Highland Games type competition in which we use our pathetically inadequate city ‘strength’ to compete against teams of Highland locals who actually work for a living. Upon hearing about this, we instantly ran back to the flat to put on our matching ‘Skye 2008′ t-shirts – if we were going to be beaten to a bloody pulp, we were going to do it whilst looking like a stylish team of professionals. We looked totally gay, it was awesome.
The first event was the caber toss. For those of you sillies who don’t know what tossing a caber involves, you basically pick up a tree trunk and try to flip it 180 degrees in the air whilst at the same time ensuring that it lands as straight and as far away from you as possible. So, essentially the opposite of what any of us are capable of. What the guys on my team needed was something like a ‘Shoes & Belt Accessorising’ event or maybe a ‘Who Can Get the Most Girls to Suck them Off Behind the Village Hall’ competition, we would have totally won those. Needless to say, Beau, Luke and Mike all failed miserably, leaving it down to me. Alistair handed me a slightly smaller, but still substantial, lady-caber and I just closed my eyes and threw it. By some miracle, it flipped 180 degrees and landed beautifully on the grass in front of me. A few people congratulated me saying things like “Well done, that’s amazing!” – but we all know that it is not amazing. Being a female who is able to throw a tree across a field is less ‘amazing’ and more ‘I’m gonna rip your wife’s face off with my vagina and there’s fuck all you can do about it’. I’m not proud of what I did and to this day Billy still asks me if I’m absolutely sure I like penises.
Next was the five-legged race. At the start of this race, Alistair bent down and tied all four of our legs together, stood up in front of everyone and said (AS A JOKE) “Fuck’s sake Jillian, you could have washed your fanny, peeyoo”. Nice. I spent the rest of the day telling anyone who would listen how he was just kidding and that, in reality, going ‘down there’ was like getting a refreshing blast of alpine forest to the face. Anyway, after coming a close second, we moved onto the welly-boot throwing competition where Beau inexplicably threw the welly behind him and almost took out a small child.
Finally, it was the dreaded tug-of-war. We were sitting in overall second place when we began this event. We thought that we could take them, that we were going to come away from this whole experience victorious after our first attempt – then we realised that there were four bastarding rounds of it and (in my slightly tipsy head) the members of the first team were staring straight into our souls, salivating all over their giant steel-toe capped boots. I was pretty tired/scared at this point and considering that the opposite team’s captain was called ‘The Butcher’ and their anchor weighed more than Beau, Luke and Mike combined, we didn’t stand much of a chance. Our only hope was to at least beat the team that consisted almost entirely of old ladies – except these old ladies appeared to have been sent to destroy us from the depths of hell. One of them was rolling around on the ground and pulling so hard that she began bleeding profusely from numerous lacerations in her arms. They humiliated us with a crushing defeat and when it was all over we left her bloodied and sweating in a heap on the floor. It’s possible that she was dead. I hope she was dead.
Overall, we finished in third place, which considering the trauma, I was delighted with. We spent the rest of the afternoon up in the village hall drinking beer, eating vulgar amounts of meat and walking around the numerous stalls which sell the inevitable pile of shit you find at every village gala. To give you an idea of what we are dealing with here, I entered a raffle and won a jar of olives, a bottle of men’s shower gel and some orange cordial. Rock and roll.
In the late afternoon we were kicked out of the village hall so that it could be transformed into Elgol’s premier ceilidh venue. Now, I love a ceilidh more than anything in the world (except iced tea) so I was beside myself with excitement and headed home with the rest of the guys to shower and get whored up for a night of drinking, dancing and debauchery. When I realised that this night had the potential to be one of the highlights of the summer/my life, I called Cameron, Iain, Sam and Eoin (who had missed the day’s events because they had actually been mapping – lol) and told them to get a fucking grip and get down here.
I think it’s safe to say word had got around that there was fresh cock in the village because when we arrived back at the hall it was like a scene from 28 Days Later. There were salivating girls in abundance, ready to tear chunks out of anyone who got in the way of them and the scrotums of my poor friends. Luckily for the guys, the wristbands that everyone is given on the door were colour-coded according to age, providing them with a handy visual aid when deciding how best to proceed (the catchphrase of the evening became “GREEN FOR GO, YELLOW MEANS NO, BUT YELLOW CAN MEAN MAYBE IF YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANY ACTION BY 1AM”). At one point I went up for a dance with Cameron, which resulted in a blatant head-case coming charging towards me saying “You trying to steal my man??”, to which I replied “I’ve been living with him and his trench-foot, man-fart, sweaty-balls for the past month. Seriously, you can have him. In fact, if you promise to keep him occupied for the whole night I’ll even throw in a jar of olives, some shower gel and a bottle of orange cordial”. She took the bait, and from the looks of her, probably most of Cameron’s foreskin that night.
At around 3am we managed to make it home, exceptionally fucked but genuinely delighted with the day we just had. It was totally stealth, none of us were prepared for it, and although I woke up the next day feeling like death, it was the most worth-it hangover I’ve ever had. What had begun as a boring old day of mapping had ended in utter chaos and I loved every minute of it. It changed the rest of that trip for me and over the next few weeks we got to know a lot of people in the village: Alistair and Joanie, their kids Craig and Grant, even my once nemesis “The Butcher”, who is now my total fave and not scary at all.
As soon as I got home, I told Billy that he needed to come see it for himself and we have been back every year since along with various combinations of the original seven. I look forward to it more than any other holiday, which considering it is only a four-hour drive from Aberdeen, is borderline unbelievable for me. Over the past four years I have been fishing with Alistair on his boat (where I had to kill things with my tiny, bare hands), I’ve swam in the fairy pools, bottle-fed Joanie’s lambs, walked for miles, drank shed-loads of beer and ate truck-loads of BBQ – but I still have not won the motherfucking Crofter’s Olympics. Sadly, I will be missing it this year due to having to work for a living but I have a feeling that 2013 will be my year so, Butcher, you better be trembling in your yellow wellies because I am coming for you and, this time, I’m bringing my sister. Yeah that’s right, Double Dingwall for the win.
This evening, while perusing the internet for pictures of jackets for my bi-annual jacket collage, I found this.
A sheep died for this:
At first, I found it all quite offensive to my eye-holes. Why would ANYONE buy something that has been in direct contact with an old ladies ass-shaped titties? She’s not wearing much on her bottom half either, so the inside of that jacket will be absolutely covered in minge-juice. But then, in the name of research, I decided to give her eBay shop a little visit…..
….and I’ve changed my mind. This woman is a fucking LEGEND!!
Have a look at her display of wares:
And on the discount rack with a massive 50% off:
Her clothes may look like they were recovered from a Nazi brothel circa 1992 but she also sells stand-alone gas heaters, bread bins, Tureen china vegetable dishes (I don’t know what that is) and shock-absorbing in-soles, so there really is something for everyone.
For sheer balls alone, this woman deserves to make money from her wonderful eBay porn.
Me? I’m gonna buy this, I think it will go great with my orcish helm:
Since starting this blog caper, I have taken a keen interest in the search terms people use to find my site, and the longer this goes on, the more depraved these terms are getting. I have decided that it would be wrong not to share them so I will be starting up a new regular* (*when I can be hooped) feature detailing just what sick fuckers you lot actually are.
What better way to start than with some drunk mum fucking and bad cock injuries…
If you’re anything like me, you will dislike visiting a site only to be told to click on a link which will open up yet another page in your browser. It is just unnecessary hassle. In saying this, however, please make an exception in this case, as myself and the phenomenal Christian Porter have joined forces to create an article for the magnificent www.gamecola.net. It discusses the rise of the latest app craze, DrawSomething….that’s a total lie, there is no discussion, it is just a collection of child-like and offensive drawings of genitals, murder-rape and swear words. There is also a photograph of me with a moustache and a baguette if you’re into that sort of thing. Which I know you are.
This one didn’t make it into the article but it is by far my favourite DrawSomething creation to date so I stole it.
“Election” by Christian Porter
Thank you, love you, bye.
Sadly, this article is not about the pros and cons of our reproductive organs, instead it is about magazines aimed at men and women and the vast chasm of banterless content that lies between them. Working on a rig, I very rarely do any work and as a result spend a lot of time reading the various lads mags that are strewn around the tea-shack with their pages suspiciously stuck together. The more I read, the more I realise that as a woman, I am getting a bit of a raw deal when it comes to my reading material in comparison to that of the men-folk. It’s gotten to the point now where on the odd occasion I will even risk looking like a rabid lesbian in Tesco Metro just to get my hands on a copy of Nuts Magazine because I find it a substantially better read than Cosmopolitan. In an attempt to investigate why there is such a huge difference between the two, I bought 2 men’s and 3 women’s magazines, read them all from cover to cover and have presented my findings below.
Straight away I can see a problem here.
Men get: Zoo and Nuts. Zoo is a fun word. It has a ‘Z’ in it and two ‘O’s which makes it a funny word to say over and over. Zoos are also fun places with lots of wild animals and ice-cream. Nuts is an equally appealing name, not only because it is a common term for testicles (which are always funny) but also because it can refer to mental illness which, depending on the nature of the mental illness (i.e. Tourette’s), can also be pretty funny.
Women get: Reveal, Best and More which are terrible names for a magazine. They invoke nothing. They sound like the names of cut-price ghetto whores. Those titles do not make me want to grab the magazines off the shelf and see what excitement they have in store for me, they make me want to shower and get tested for syphilis.
These first few pages are supposed to draw you in and prepare you for what’s to come. They are supposed to make you want to give the magazine an hour of your time.
Men get: “How Harry Redknapp’s bulldog could spend £189k” – Referring to the recent claim that Mr. Redknapp paid 189k into a secret account in the name of Rosie, one of his bulldogs. This short and topical article was accompanied by a series of photos depicting a v cute bulldog in a variety of situations which included getting a private dance in a strip-club and buying a pair of designer sunglasses. Which I loved.
Women get: “Yellow Fever Hits Town” – Fortunately not an article about the acute viral hemorrhagic disease responsible for wiping out entire communities in South America, but a reference to the complicated subject of the colour yellow in fashion. Apparently there are five main shades of yellow (canary, sherbet, mustard, neon and lemon) and it is imperative that I know the difference between them. I now wish they had written about the disease.
I love facts (for example, did you know that wombats shit cubes?) so I was delighted to discover that a few of these magazines provide a page of interesting facts to impress your friends with. It seems, however, that the media believe women speak a strange, alternate language in which “interesting” actually means “so boring I want to stab myself in the eye with a rusty fork”.
-The smallest human penis ever recorded was roughly 1cm long.
-Bees can recognise human faces.”
Women editors take note: THESE are the kind of facts that I want to share with my friends.
-10% of blokes wants to complete a 10k run in 2102.
-36% of blokes prefer brown bread to white.”
First of all, I don’t give a fuck. Secondly, “bloke” is a shit word.
I performed an experiment in the pub to see just which set of facts would generate the most interest from females. I started off with the brown bread fact and got hit in the face with a tumbleweed. The penis fact, however, had a much better reception and incited an animated conversation about whether by “roughly” they meant ‘approximately’ or if the guy had a 1cm penis with some sort dermatological affliction that gave it the texture of sandpaper. This then moved on to whether we would let a guy come near us with a tiny, abrasive 1cm penis. Incidentally, I was the only one that would……I was thinking of the exfoliation benefits.
Due to the anatomical and chemical differences between men and women, it was no surprise to me that the ‘Health Questions’ section of these magazines differed considerably. What did surprise me, however, was that the differences were often neither anatomical or chemical, but more forehead-slappingly stupid or hilariously embarrassing.
Men get: “I always, without fail, need to do a massive fart straight after I’ve had sex. It has caused me so many problems in the past that it has nearly put me off sex completely and I’m too embarrassed to go to the doctor. What should I do?”
Women get: “I’m bleeding in the middle of my cycle on my contraceptive pill. What should I do?”
Oh my God. Stop writing into magazines and go to the fucking doctor you reprobate. That’s like writing “I just got my arm ripped off by some farming machinery, it’s bleeding profusely. What should I do?” and then emailing it in to the magazine, sitting around waiting for it to be issued, dragging your weak body to the shop to buy it, trying to get the money out of your wallet with one hand and then dying on the pavement outside as you desperately flip through the pages trying to find where they printed the answer to your ridiculous question, which will inevitably be “Stop writing into magazines and go to the fucking hospital you weirdo”.
By featured articles I mean either the ones you see splashed all over the cover because they are the most informative, exclusive and interesting things that magazine has to offer you, or the ones that feature regularly in said magazine. Instead of sitting here for weeks describing each one, I will just provide a list of some of the titles of these featured articles. You can then decide for yourself which magazine you would prefer to read and which one you will take camping with you so you can wipe your arse with Kerry Katona’s face.
-Would you? (a picture of a hideously ugly girl with an amazing body)
-Don’t Look (pictures of gory injuries sent in by readers)
-Camera Phone Comedy (mostly pictures of sleeping, drunk people getting cocks drawn on their faces)
-Naff Tatts Corner (a weekly collection of shit tattoos)
-There are also entire pages dedicated to stealth-bumming and sex advice from a ‘fit lesbian’.
-Look Younger for Longer
-Eat Yourself Younger
-Which is the Healthiest Diet?
-We ask him: What Would Stop you Cheating on your Girlfriend?
-What his ‘I Love You’ Really Means
-How to Make him Want you Back
-There are also entire pages dedicated to eyebrow upkeep and lettuce. Now, I’m not for a second suggesting that eyebrows and lettuces are not engaging subjects worthy of intricate discussion, but would “pluck them” and “put it in a sandwich” not save you quite bit of paper? It is a recession.
When was the last time you said to someone “Do you want to hear a joke?” and they said “No thanks, I don’t like jokes”. Never – because everyone likes jokes. Bearing this in mind…
Men get: A penguin takes his car to the garage where the mechanic says it will take an hour or so to fix. As it is quite a hot day, the penguin decides to get an ice-cream but makes quite a mess eating it. An hour later he returns to the garage.
“What’s the problem?” the penguin asks.
“It looks like you’ve blown a seal mate” says the mechanic.
“Oh no” he replies “that’s just ice-cream.”
Women get: Fuck all. Not even a knock-knock joke.
HOT PIECES OF ASS
Men get: So much tits. Too much tits. The abundance of tits and football articles is literally the only down-side to men’s magazines. I generally flip past the naked women (especially when I’m pre-menstrual) but will admit that on the odd occasion when I am feeling up to it, I will skim over them just to get an idea of how mine are (literally) holding-up in comparison. This always proves to be a pointless exercise as boobs tend to get progressively worse over time, but although they may never suddenly become perkier than those of Kimberley, 18, from Liverpool, it can sometimes bring back good memories of the days when they were.
Women get: David Beckham. Every fucking week.
Why magazines still bother with this when we have the Internet is beyond me, but they do, and again they do it so very differently.
Men get: ‘The Simon Cowell’*
A dodgy drawing of Simon Cowell banging a girl from behind with “It’s a yes from me” captioned underneath. I think it is essentially doggy-style but with your thumbs up in the air.
*Billy: I’ll be home on Tuesday, get down to Primark and buy as many black v-neck sweaters as you can, pull your jeans up so high that I can see each individual testicle and then pick me up from the airport around 7.30pm. This is happening.
Women get: ‘A Sexy Bubble-Bath’
Not technically a position though, is it? It’s more like an activity. They have basically just told me to have sex in the bath. I figured that one out when I was 17.
On a side note, they have a little caption at the bottom which says “Want £50 to have sex with your man? Email us and you could be in the mag!”
Men get: Two pages. A couple of pairs of jeans, some t-shirts with retro video game logos on them, a few pairs of trainers and a jacket or two. Job done-o.
Women get: Well, obviously women’s magazines are going to pay more attention to fashion and that’s completely fine. I do have an interest in it and I enjoy looking at nice clothes and making fantasy lists in my head of the ones that I want, yet will never buy – but for the love of Christ, it does not have to take up two thirds of the entire fucking magazine. If I wanted to look at that many clothes I would have gone to TK Maxx with the rest of Poland and had a walk around. After four pages I’ve had enough. Add to this the fact that the price-tags on some of them are ridiculous to the point that literally no one I know would be able to afford them. Yes, alright I will give them their due, more and more magazines are featuring high street stores nowadays, but they will always throw in a Mulberry bag or pair of Louboutins just to remind you that you live in relative poverty and will forever smell of turnips and Baldrick’s ball-bag.
So with my research complete, let’s sum this up:
-Women are only interested in being thin, looking young and obsessing over their men. They have no concept of humour and will not stop until their dishes are “smear-free” and sparkling.
-Men are light-hearted and fun creatures with a love of tits, football and entertainment. They spend their time drinking beer, laughing and drawing genitals on each others faces.
I refuse to accept this.
We like apps! We like laughing! We like photos of people stealth-bumming each other! Why are we not allowed to have these things in our magazines? Now, I know that for a girl I am into slightly abnormal things like video games, gadgets and explicit photos of horrendous injuries, so I am aware that in its entirety, Zoo is probably not going to appeal to most women, but just having the choice would be nice. Men get to choose between Viz and GQ, two magazines with highly contrasting content, whereas women get to choose between Hello and OK, one of which has an extra picture of Kate Middleton. I once spoke to a male colleague about this dilemma and he explained rather simply that “There just isn’t a market for humour and immaturity when it comes to women’s light reading.” Is this true? I know I’m not the only one who would rather see a photo of a dog in a sleeping-bag playing an Xbox than see Rihanna dry-humping a surfboard in Hawaii for the one millionth time.
Sadly, it appears that until someone realises that having a vagina does not constitute page upon page of mundane and superficial bullshit, I will just to have to continue to steal Billy’s copy of Viz, peel apart the pages of Loaded magazine in the tea shack and hope that one day, my children’s children will not have to suffer this immense hardship.