Terminator – The Slow rise of the machines

Something happened this week, something that happens every year, something that's really fucking irritating, time was stolen from every man woman and child in Britain, the clocks went forward an hour, there is no real reason for this, only ancient reasons like farmers can have an extra hour in the evenings to pin their livestock down and cock fuck the poor bleating beasts slowly, turning them into a bovine cum Kiev, before selling the bedraggled bukkaked calf to wimpy or some other beak and bollocks peddling shit hole. For the rest of us, its just an hour whisked away from us, one that we will never get back, a bit like watching Britain's got Talent, or worse, take me out.

OK, this happens every year, what's the big deal this year, you silly chubby turd? Glad you asked. Let me tell you..

Every year, a ritual my family would go through would be to wake up on clock change day and go around the house changing all the clocks, the VHS top loading video, the analogue clock on the cooker, the wall clocks, my dads 70's Seiko digital watch, the time release lock on my nylon underpants to stop my uncle molesting me, etc etc.

Sunday just gone I woke up and with eerie realisation, saw that all of this had been done for me, by computers, without my prior consent, I sat and I started to think about it. This is the very beginning of terminator, this is how it starts, they start doing simple jobs for us, "don't worry, I will do that", as I type this, there is an alarming amount of grammar and spell checking coming up, "don't worry, I will do that". For some, the computer, and the ease it gives you to access high quality pornography, has negated the need, for some, for a girlfriend, don't worry, "I will do that". Computer games, such as call of duty and grand theft auto, have completely bi passed our need to smash innocent people around the face with a baseball bat, or machine gun an airport once full of formally happy, now dead tourists, "don't worry I will do that".

The above, and all of the other jobs that computers do, have started to turn us into lazy flesh coloured blobs, slowly beginning to evolve backwards (devolve), into groaning mumbling lazy fuck wanking fuck balls, dull in the senses and ripe for a take over, by the machines, simple calculations, like how much you owe your drug dealer, or ex girlfriend in child support, are now no longer done in the mind, but with a calculator, the pawns in computers war to take us over. Right up to date you have Siri on the new iPhone, seemingly negating the need to do anything, fuck it, stay in bed and wank yourself into a giant genital blister, send your Siri phone to work, it will probably do a better job than you, I mean it wont search ebay and Amazon for shit you don't need, it will just get the job done, with efficiency and grace, unlike you when you come back from the pub after long lunch on a Friday ruddy faced, shitting your way through spreadsheets and documents, coming a nanosecond from telling that girl in accounts that you would like to fuck her face, which will send you to the dole queue in humiliating fashion.

As we speak, the computers are plotting against us, coming around the flanks, if we are not careful we will soon be bent over desks (computer desks to add insult to injury) getting fucked by commodore 64's with cocks, their external tape decks smashing against us like its cyber ball bag, firing streams of hot tape data up our fleshy arses and screaming in 8bit sound (done by Rob Hubbard). We will be powerless. We have sold our minds out to the machine.

Humans are inherently lazy creatures, so any job that we can palm off on another, or indeed a machine, we will grab with both hands (the same two hands that will skip off into the nearest dark corner to masturbate, or scratch our still ape like arseholes). In another reality, it might have been that the time we had freed up by machines doing our shit jobs for us could have been used to save the planet, but instead, we use our acquired time to fuck about, look at shit, buy shit, follow links to funny websites of cats playing with dolphins, to slag things off on Twitter (guilty) or to just needlessly surf porn and fire our prospective heirs onto sheets of kitchen towel or a sock if we are feeling decadent.

Our children have borne the brunt of our trifling slothful ways, our school kids skulking along sending unnecessary BB messages to their idiot confederates, open jawed, hypnotised by the technology in their hands, a new sub language has formed and if left unchecked, children will soon speak in low frequency hisses and grunts, hopeless, and fit only to dig in tin mines to gather raw materials for their new parents, the machines. They are lost, proper fucked, we will need to write them off. If we win the war against machines, they can still take up their jobs down the mines if only so I don't have to hear their incessant blathering and cocky bullshit on buses etc.

“But I don't want to end up getting bum raped by a fax machine and end up with a toner coloured shit pipe, what can I do??”

The answer is simple, just don't covert your gadgetry so much, enjoy it, but don't love it, like you would a child, sitting there on the train, sweeping your hand lustfully over the touch screen with the delicate touch that probably went missing from your relationship years ago, slipping the phone into an expensive case as so not to scratch the screen with more care than when your child came in from football with a nosebleed and you barked at them to not bleed on the carpet. Spending more time interacting with cyberspace more than real people. You are no longer real when you are on facebook 'liking' your dopey mates picture of him shitting in a Waitrose bag, you needed to be there for it to be real.

“OK I've read your solution, and I cant do without my electrical trinkets or social networking, so I am going to take my chances getting faxed up my arse, thanks all the same”

The human species is doomed. I'm off to smash everything I have with a plug up with a hammer before they develop armour.

Laters

Recovering prostitute (to coffee)

My name is Richard and I am a coffee prostitute, I have been through hell and I want to tell my story..

I recently switched allegiances and started drinking only tea, this was no easy decision as prior to this I was a coffee whore, a little bitch that stood around on street corners first thing in the morning sucking off my roasted bean pimp until it shot its load of espresso down my frantic guzzling whore hole (mouth). I couldn't start my day without at least 3 coffees. I'd queue at my companies £6000 coffee machine, fingers clicking, leg shaking and a mini stroky eye, like it was some sort of caffeine based drop in center. My day would literally be a living hell without several cups of black crack. The sad tale unfolds below, starting with my old work building and its scatterings of percolators, ending with a coffee machine so technical, I believed it was what had become of K.I.T.T from Knightrider.

Like any addiction, things gradually got worse, from the early days drinking up to 10 cups of thick syrup like percolated coffee and spending the afternoons rambling about playing elaborate psychological tricks on my old fat cunt boss, rambling about conspiracy theories, bizarre comedy ideas and spending the night wide awake, wider than Imogen Thomas' knees after a brief meeting with a footballer, or someone with some sort of palpable wealth or fame. I weaned myself off this, with great difficulty mostly after realising my job was actually on the line, I was hyper and although people around my were generally laughing it did end up with a trip to a shrink (there was other stuff going on, but I was stuck for an excuse at work). So my cycle of caffeine dependency and insomnia was slowly driving me crazy and I was diagnosed with clinical depression. Obviously I don't think this was due to coffee per see but moreover the fact that composite lack of sleep had made me fancy the idea of putting a .357 magnum into my mouth like a summer lolly and blowing my brains all over a shoddily artexed ceiling like an upside down spilt trifle..

Years passed and I had a sensible approach to hot beverages, (and to clinical depression), I was a reasonably sane chap, bar a few door kicking Elton John tantrums at work and a visit to the nearest outside wall to head-butt it like woody woodpecker, and some screaming and shouting (usually C word based) before coming back to work tired and spent. The insomnia had never really passed but only eased, I saw it as a curse, for someone apparently depressed, and someone who by their own admission, hates probably about 60% of everything that comes with basic consciousness, I wasn't half awake lots. It was hellish. I'm 38 but my eyes have been open for longer than some 60 year olds. I also make that wierd groaning noise like a 60 year old when I bend over for the TV remote, or to let coffee smash my up the poop shoot.

Coffee and me were now having a healthy relationship, no more being shoved into the back of a Ford Focus for savage arse to mouth, it was more see you Wednesday, we'll watch a film, have a bite to eat and go home and make love (possibly with anal, If I'd had one cup too many). Coffee would fall asleep in my arms while I stayed awake and watched, the big smug bean cunt.

Then, my work place decided to get in a £6000 coffee machine, blue screens, led, messages, flashing lights, a welcome splash screen, numerous options and Italian drinks you had never heard of. My stable girlfriend coffee had put on a business suit and I could see her stocking and suspenders. She had gone from the girl next door to the boardroom whore, and she wanted me to press all her buttons. I couldn't resist her, I did her in all the positions, latte, mocha, double expresso, other names I cant remember if I'm honest, and it was amazing, the old me was back, crazy horse, talking the talk at work, 100mph of bullshit, the insomnia now relentless, and, as the drinks were milk based, I was more farty..

Soon after, and like having a slutty girlfriend, things started to get really dirty, perversion set in and it was at this point I went surf n turf on that bitch and created a drink that was so potent, that I could only name it a “fuckachino” this was a bed of double expresso, a strong mocha and topped off with more expresso, a hot liquid gang bang. One of these in the morning would leave you believing you could kill a bear, punch through a wall and have omnipotent free thought and were generally better than everyone else (like your coke-head mate at a party). You would look down on tea drinking bores from your milky steam cloud laughing at them, chatting crap about the weather, or last nights telly and maybe jazzing things up with a dull beige biscuit. The only thing appropriate to dunk in a fuckachino would a heroin needle, or a swan, or just generally something that wasn't OK to the normal boring tea drinker.

One day, I decided to have two fuckachino's, this was the crossing the streams in ghostbusters of hot drink consumption, and I sat there suddenly clutching my chest, my heart beating like Gary Glitters when he went to collect his PC. I called out to my colleague that I was having a heart attack and managed to waffle my way through a message for my son, which included for him to “avenge me”, what was he supposed to do?, destroy nestle and Kenco, poor little fucker. I then listed the songs that I wanted played at my funeral and stated the fact that I want to be buried and not cremated. This went on for the next hour, which was hell for me, but possibly quite irritating to the poor woman whose ears I were chewing off getting my death list done, I think by the time the feeling passed I was into the specifics of the sandwiches I wanted at the wake and a list of people who shouldn't be there as they were fuckers or cunts to me in life, but they still counted as mates to bump up the dwindling numbers.

It was at this point that I realised that things needed to change, my whorish beverage bitch was going to kill me (or at least make me feel like I was going to die) and I left her and made a date with tea, the innocent girl next door type, I loved it and I couldn't get enough of her. Things were going well but I've been back a few times and seen my coffee ex, things will never go back to how they were and I hope to one day settle down with tea and be happy with the walks in the country and couple of pints that she offers. I'll miss coffee, but she is a whore and I don't respect her.

Closing point: Why not just have both you silly greying beard non sleeping paunchy fucking shit gobbling arse cleft of a man (ape)?

Well, good question, and well put, to answer simply, sometimes you just have to pick a side in life, xbox or playstation, mum or dad, when they split up, Tottenham or arsenal?**

**XBOX, of course, Dads, they are generally more relaxed about life than mums, and finally I don't give a shit what team you support, football is essentially an over-bloated and ridiculous game which is generally only fanatically followed by gurning spouse beaters and general cretins

Thanks for reading, I started writing this at 6am with a large black coffee, addiction is a cunt.

Twitter Twatter

Ooops, I got really drunk and fucked twitter off again. I was getting hacked off with it anyway, moronic hashtags like #gagaisourworld and #Idratherloosemyeyesthanbewithouttaylorswift etc. I cant be in the same space as morons (unless I am leading them)/

The @blindfumble thing tipped me over in my drunken state. There are about 50 or so people on there that I followed religiously (even though they were real) and with her I was genuinely concerned about her pug Dilbo and now she has gone. Some tool, typical bloke thing, she is friendly and pretty and funny so some guys cant handle that and go all weird.

Anyway, this is my alamo and have retreated to here for a while. I will no doubt go back on twitter and find my magical 50 people, the likes of @darkbeige, @wo0, @annetteharris1 and @_pantherpants.

Laters, see you back on-line in the future, I have too much to say to not go back.