5 July 2012

All The Small Things

Who liked Blink 182 when they were younger? Just admit it - I know they're terrible now, but like Stevie Wonder before them, we shall not judge their earlier brilliance on their later awfulness. Who adored the song by Blink 182 that went 'Shit-piss-fuck-cunt-cocksucker-motherfucker-tits-fart-turd and twot'? I ask because this song directly relates to what I'm about to talk about - how awful we were as children.

I had a conversation recently with a girl at work about all the things we used to do for fun back at school, and as pants-shittingly fun as they were back then, when I look at them through my wisened eyes, I see just how dark, twisted and sick we were as children.

For example, we used to have an ongoing sort-of game where you would walk up to your friend (keep in mind we were 10) and as casually as possible say 'You dropped your gay card' before pissing ourselves with laughter when the poor victim looked. That's not delightful and innocent and full of wonder; I genuinely believed that this made them gay and I genuinely thought that was so Shakespearean in its unfortunateness that it was worth spending the rest of my break hurting myself laughing so hard at them. What the fuck mini-me?! If I was to do that now I would get stared down with such fierce disgust and disapproval from my peers that I would probably end up in the foetal position crying and begging for forgiveness. Not cool young me.

We played another game called blue murder where you get split into two teams. One team thought of a word and divided out the letters between them and the other chased them down and mercilessly beat the ever-loving shit out of them until they gave up their letter. If the entire word was guessed before break was up then the now possibly infertile team lost. Admittedly, this still seems like fun to me, but if they ever needed proof that the Lord Of The Flies was an accurate portrayal of tiny minds then I think we've found it.

I personally told a girl who I knew had a severe peanut allergy that I would ram a peanut down her throat (I can't remember why), I stole £2 from a friend snatch-and-run style just for the shits and gigs of it, and when I got caught calling a teacher drunk behind her back (keep in mind that I'm 10, I may as well have been saying she had a prom-night dumpster baby to Hitler) I said lied about a friend saying it with me just so I wouldn't have to take the full force of the punishment - I was the god-damned Antichrist!

This is where Blink 182 comes into play. That song signifies how degraded, depraved and disgusting we were as children - we liked it purely because they swore. We liked making fun of gay people because they were different, and we liked blue murder because it was full-on, brutal, unabated violence. Children are evil and should be treated as such. Sure they will do the odd cute thing like call a 'butterfly' a 'flutterby' - but does that really make up for the chaotic sado-masochistic stream of sewage spewing from their dirty, evil little minds? If they are anything like I was - and I'm sure most of you were - then I don't think it does.

Dont forget to click 'Join This Site' at the side or 'like' the Passive Aggressive Release Facebook page so that we can band together and keep a watchful eye on the 'Child Menace'. Also, if anyone wants to confess to the atrocities they committed a child please put it in the comments section!

14 June 2012

The Pursuit Of Sexyness

Oh hey! Sorry I didn't see you there. It's been so long I nearly forgot what you looked like...still as ugly and juvenile as ever I see. I am of course talking about the long leave of absence I have taken from writing my blog, but I'm back with a vengeance so prepare your anus, pansies.

A lot has happened since I last graced the internet – I moved to a lovely new home (again), I've had a minor promotion at work, I passed college and I saw The Avengers - but that's all boring and the mere mention of it is purely a way for me to high five myself using the English language. This is a passive aggressive release and shall be used as such.

I recently pulled a 35 year old at a family wedding because she was the only single available female that I can (now) safely say that I was not related to. After I was finished taking a long hard look at my life the morning after, it got me thinking; what is the very worst thing I have ever done in the pursuit of sex?

Was it telling a woman that I was an Optician and could totally get her a huge discount on laser eye surgery before ordering another drink for her? Was it 'randomly' talking about how I kind-of-sort-of find C-sections sexy within earshot of a woman whom I knew had had one? Thankfully all of my 'sexual predator' stories are at best shenanigan-like in their awfulness and at worst an embarrassment to myself, but I genuinely think that the very worst thing that I have ever done to sleep with a woman is go down on her and then give her a 'well...you pretty much owe me now' look as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

How insidious is that? I am 100% sure that we are all foul of it, men and women, but when you get right down and think about it, you have just bartered for sex. That makes you a god-damned whore and you should feel the appropriate levels of filthy because of it. Now please don't read this as 'Ryan only ever gives to get' because that is not the case (I am a gentle yet powerful lover who nurtures as he rocks worlds.......in my head). What has happened however is that poking you in the side with my erection for 20 straight minutes didn't work and I've had to revert to plan B before blue-ball comes hurtling towards my testees with the force of a thousand punches.

I'm not here to say stop, I'm not even here to suggest preventative measures, what I am here to do is to ask that the next time you judge someone for what they do in bed, think to yourself what awful things you yourself have done.
“I will allow you to go paintballing with your friends, but only if you put on my lace panties and assume the position.”
“I don't care that you're on your period, we'll put a towel down”
“I point blank refuse to put that in there you gross fuck. Unless you promise to do it to me first.”

We are all messed up sexually to a degree, we've all done awful things with people we either trust or are just too drunk to give a shit about and we will continue to do this until our hips refuse to let us do anything but missionary. So for the love of sexy-jesus can we please stop judging me for pulling a 35 year old by telling her that I have a C-section fetish and that I would get her a discount on laser eye surgery. Thank you.

Don't forget to 'Join This Site' at the side if you want to be instantly informed of the next time I feel ashamed of something :)

17 April 2012

Grand Theft Dido

Who remembers the original Rayman game? If you're like me you have only fond memories of that little scarf wearing scamp, lots of bright colours and funny characters - this memory is a lie planted into our minds by Ubisoft to keep us paying for this bastard of a game nearly 20 years later.

I spent an hour last night (from 0110 - 0210 no less) trying not to smash the living room up in a fit of rage reserved for people who have just received a jumbo-steroid-enema because of the infuriating impossibility of (this is an actual level) punching a space-housewife in the face enough times to kill her whilst she used pots and pans to blow me up. It was at the point where I began to wish that the controller wasn't wireless so that I could use the chord to strangle the life out of the nearest living thing to me that I had an Epiphany.

A few years ago when people were blaming Grand Theft Auto for making people think it was acceptable in real life to pick up hookers, have sex with them in your car, pay them and then blow them up with a bazooka before casually reclaiming your cash and doing the wanted level down cheat, they were only half wrong. Grand Theft Auto is probably the least likely game to cause a murder. Personally, when I play GTA and slaughter tens of thousands of innocent bystanders whilst listening to Dido and eating Dairylea Lunchables, I feel calm. I have released my anger, much the same way as a stress ball would help with that. This does not mean I condone snipering off paramedics when they come to revive your victims in real life, that's probably not okay; what I'm saying is that I am less likely to lose my shit and pick up an Uzi after GTA than I am before.

Ray-fucking-man, however, is a completely different god-damned story. I get no satisfaction from doing the same level eleventy-thousand times before finally winging it only for some bitch-fairy godmother to grant me slightly faster running powers. Punching a housewife in the face loses its horror when it's a cute little yellow dude with floaty fists and a cheery disposition on a quest to save pink fluff-balls that's doing the punching. This game is the destroyer of worlds and as far as I can see has only 2 purposes: to create rage-infected monkeys or to make a super-Hulk. Other than that it should be avoided at all costs.

I for one will ground my children if I see them playing Rayman, taking all their games off of them apart from GTA because I will sleep easier knowing that they have exercised their anger with me by grenading a police station before getting some sleep.

Don't forget to follow me if you agree children should grow up knowing how cool a bazooka is!

6 April 2012

Sock Maker Sex Tapes

In this past week of moving out, something terrible has happened to me. I have turned into...a socccer mom (minus the child or any interest in soccer.) So far since moving into my new flat I have baked, I have debated over what ingredients to put in my soup that has to last us the next 4 days, I have bought 2-4-1 bread and froze one of the loafs to save money, I voluntarily do the dishes, I...well, you get the picture, but worst of all - the thing that has disgusted me the most about myself so far - I looked at a set of cushions the other day and thought 'Wow, they would be lovely in the flat.' I'm being serious. That thought went through my head. No hint of a lie. What the fuckin' fuck.

When I thought about moving out, I imagined being perpetualy drunk or hungover. I thought it would be a life of little-to-no fucks given about anything, and I can live like that; there is absolutely nothing stopping me, but I don't want to. I want a clean house with good plates to bring out when we have company. I want the living room to smell of cleanliness as opposed to fag-ash and spilled cider. I want to shop at Ikea.

Does this happen to everyone? One day you're masturbating into £20 notes and the next you're making your own window-wash out of lemon juice and vinegar? I still love Die Hard and celebrity sex tapes as much as the next man, but I now have a respect for the Lakeland catlogue too, and god-damnit these things should never occuopy the same brain - ever!

As much as I love being able to come and go as I please, to saunter in drunk and convince my flat mate that yes he does have to listen to my theories on who would be better in bed, Shania Twain or Miley Cyrus, I did not forsee myself turning into this freak of responsibility.

Hopefully it will fade with time and I can get back to buying new socks when I run out of clean pairs instead of washing them, because screw you sock-makers, that's why. If not you'll find in the nearest charity shop haggling with the cashier.

Remember to follow me if you want someone in your life that makes you feel less miserable about how awful it is!

27 March 2012

Grandmothers Condoms

Just a wee short post today so that y'all know that I'm still alive - I would hate to disappoint my bajillions of fans (refreshing the page over and over counts as getting fans, right?)

I am moving out of the family home on Thursday and I have spent today boxing up my room. Amongst some of the awesome finds previously hidden in the depths of my filth, such as a lava lamp and a Gameboy Advance, I found a bag of condoms. Yes you read that right, a god-damned bag  full. There must be about 100 condoms of every shape, texture and flavour in this bag. When my initial puzzlement/horror/arousal subsided, I remembered a part of my life I had long since blocked out for my own damn good, and here it is for all to see.

My Gran was a Nurse, and she somehow found out that I was sexually active at some point...it may have had something to do with the round of high-5s that I gave my family whilst thrusting my hips and grinning, but that's not the point. She started bringing me home purple bags filled with condoms, left them on my bed and told me that she'd left me a bag of sweeties. Have you ever delved into a wonka-coloured bag in the hope of chocolate only to discover blueberry flavoured cock-rubber? It is disappointing at best and traumatising at most.

This was my life for a period of time, and when it stopped, my brain was kind enough to do me the service of erasing the memory. Now that is has come flooding back I feel dirty, ashamed, and more looking forward to getting out of here than ever. So swings and roundabouts really.

On a side-note, I have a fuck-tonne of out-of-date flavoured condoms up for grabs if anyone wants them?

Stay protected people, I will be back when I'm settled!

20 March 2012

Schizophrenic Terminator

When I boil it right down to basics, I have very few things to actually do. Turn up to work, coast through college, try and walk by the three bars that tempt me with their sweet, sweet beer on the way to the gym that I feel obliged to attend, and at least kid myself on that one day I will quit smoking. That's about it.

I write this blog from the comfort of my own home as my classmates sit through a lecture that I'm sure will be marginally less entertaining than watching Paris Hilton act while dressed. I am fresh off having a schizophrenic debate with myself about whether or not to phone in sick for work tonight because not only would that mean no work but also no gym, and the thing that helped me win the argument with my brain is that if I go to work I can have smoke. This, everyone, is how you fail at life.

I befriended a girl recently who has four jobs and studies how to perform brain surgery whilst sciencing the shit out of rockets...or something like that. I have a friend who works full time, volunteers and plays bass in a band. Where the fuck do you people find the motivation? Seriously, tell me. I need to know...now. Coffee doesn't work because I just end up excitedly flicking through Okay! magazine whilst on the toilet, I don't have the money (yet) for a cocaine habit and trying to self motivate myself is laughably embarrassing:
    "Ryan...Ryan...why don't you, like, maybe do something?"
"Because fuck you brain, that's why. When I want your advice I'll ask for it, now put me back to sleep and start off from where that jelly-wrestling dream left-off or so help me God I will drink your cells into an early grave."

If I had even slightly more motivation I could focus on writing a thrilling novel that no publisher would touch instead of this, arguably low-brow, blog. I don't need Terminator-esque determination, just enough so that when I wake up in the morning my first thought isn't that I already need this day to end.

If anyone knows how to achieve this with minimal effort, please tell me, because right now it's like my relationship with Emma Watson - impossible.

Keep on truckin' :)

15 March 2012

Alcohol-Fuelled Digital Nostalgia

I have been drinking wine and looking at old photographs. This, in my experience, is never a good idea. Every photo I have was taken at a supposedly positive time (what would be the point in taking it if it wasn't, unless you worked in crime scene investigation...and even then...) The reason I don't think that it's ever a good idea is that no matter how good or bad your life may be at this particular moment in time, all of these photos from your past have a rose-tinted filter over them as far as your eyes are concerned and this will make you miss those days. This is bullshit.

I have a photo where I look like I couldn't be having more fun if I had just been gifted a crate of cocaine to snort off of the naked arses of a ship full of high-class hookers, but I remember that it was taken during the 4-5 second part of the night that wasn't awful. This is the one and only photo I have that I can definitely say this about, every other photo I look at represents Christmas-morning levels of pleasure and reminds me of how much fun this or that was, or how I never do things like that anymore, or how I wish I was still in touch with blah-blah etc. They are just fucking depressing.

Two months ago I was grooving on down dressed in masquerade. Four months ago I was dressed head to painfully-enormous heel in drag. My wild/crazy/random/embarrassing days are far from behind me, but I see one picture of a wild night out from two years ago and I start longing for the good ole' days.


So why do I get all nostalgic any time I see myself with a hairline and an extra chin? Because I filter out the shit. Let's look at Christmas day as an example: I remember getting and giving presents, eating enough food to feed Africa and getting drunk enough to think it's okay to talk to my family about my sexual preferences. That's it. Cooking, cleaning, arguing, waiting for family to arrive, arguing, spending an hour on the toilet, arguing - all forgotten. The difference with Christmas is that I remember only the good, then look forward to next years. It doesn't work the same for photographs, I remember the good then assume I will never have that again, and I have no idea why.

The only way I can think of to counter-balance this is to take photo's at the most inappropriate times. "It's over. I've fell in love with someone else." CLICK!
"You're dog has been horrifically ran over by a police K-9 unit on their way to a burning veterinary surgery." CLICK!
"You have cancer of the penis. It only has two limp, impotent months to live." CL*sob*ICK!

So remember when you're out next, snapping everything that happens - one day, it could be the thing that quite literally pushes you over the edge. If spiders don't get you first.


10 March 2012

Saturday Night Fever

I work all weekend, every weekend - this is not through choice, but necessity. It means that I don't usually go out on a Friday or a Saturday night because there are few tortures worse than dealing with the retard fuck-wit public whilst struggling through a suicide-inducing hangover (being within 10 feet of a spider is marginally more traumatic.)

I am not bothered by this at all. Saturday nights consist of fighting through an ocean of dolled-up trolls for hundreds of hours at a time just to get to a bar that is staffed entirely by people who do not want to serve you, only to be charged £10 for a drink that you then end up spilling over someone as you claw your way back through the crowd. This person subsequently starts a fight with you and wins. Now repeat until drunk enough to not feel the cold (this is actually an essential survival instinct designed to stop people freezing to death in the mile-long taxi queue to get home.)

What does bother me is when people ask if I'm going out at the weekend. Every single "No" that I have to dispence results in pity. I could explain why I'm staying in every single time I'm asked, or I could accept the pity and move on, neither of which are very good options. I know that whoever asks means no ill-will towards me, they're being friendly, polite, down-right nice in fact... I don't care - fuck you.

This can apply to lots of things. Let's say it's summer and you're allergic to dairy. Everyone you're with goes to the ice-cream van and gets ice-cream, but you get gummy bears. You are suddenly bombarded with "Why didn't you get ice-cream hypothetical person?" every single day, for the entire summer. You would completely lose your shit after a while, regardless of how aware you are that the person is showing genuine concern for your mental health (because ice-cream is amazing and anyone who thinks otherwise has non-functioning taste buds.)

What I'm trying to say is that if you ask me if I'm going out this weekend out of sheer kindness and I repeatedly stab you in the face, it's not your fault. You were just the straw that broke the camels back, and I am truly sorry in advance.

Enjoy your weekend.

7 March 2012

Mayonnaise & Adultery

This is going to be on the subject of healthy eating, but I'm not here to bitch and moan about weight because I don't star in Sex In The City (that shows all about worrying how fat a size 8 is, mensturation and Cosmo's...right?)

I am currently attempting to eat healthily though, and for all the usual reasons - to increase my chances of getting laid. We all know that it can be tough to eat soup when everyone else in the room gets a triple-cheeseburger made with kebab meat and folded into a calzone for dinner, but if I cave and get one as well, that's my fault and I accept that. Todays discretion was not my fault.

I went to a deli for lunch, thinking I'll get a treat. I looked at the menu and saw they serve honey mustard chicken, and to me, that sounds like cold meat. I then looked at their display and saw what I thought was some good, wholesome, home-made coleslaw with minimal mayonnaise and loads of veg (I am aware this is not super healthy, but as a treat it's a far cry from a deep-fried Mars bar, so fuck off and stop judging me you hypothetical shit-head.)

I order my honey mustard wholemeal baguette with coleslaw and a black coffee (because milk is the devil supposedly) and this is where shit gets real. I was so shocked by what happened next that I couldn't physically move myself to stop it. All of a sudden, a giant spoon dove into a pit of what should have been labelled 'mayonnaise with a light sprinkling of chicken' and splodged it's catch onto my innocent baguette. Another spoon, maybe the chicken-spoons brother, plowed into a secret-hidden-MI6 tub of coleslaw so full of mayo that the veg was bleached white. Before I knew it, I had payed for what has to be the most unhealthy baguette since the french used them for colonoscopies.

I had to eat it. I will be god-damned before I pay £3 for food and not eat it; however, as you can see, this was not my fault. Suddenly the 'I didn't mean to cheat' excuse holds some weight for me, because if I can accidentally order a crusty egg-flavoured heart attack, then why couldn't they have slipped and fell whilst naked over and over again? All I can say now is "I'll let you off with a warning this time ma'am, but next time check your surroundings."

So now, not only am I chunkier than I was this morning, but any budding spouse of mine gets a free ticket to ride. Screw you local deli. I hope a Subway opens up next door to you and steals all of your business and you end up homeless, giving out handies for cash. So there.

On the plus side, I didn't find any spiders lurking in the spew of dressing waiting to scurry into my stomach...

A slightly chubbier "au revoir" :)

4 March 2012

Dead Ringer Sandwich

I was going to start this by apologising for going off on a tangent about merciless kill-demons from hell (A.K.A. spiders) in my last post, because in hindsight it was a bit random, and random is just sooo 2008 now. But then I thought that I'm not apologising for jack-shit and that was that.

What I really want to talk about is a truly traumatic experience that I endured recently. A few weeks ago whilst browsing the tinter-web, I happened upon a movie called 'Dead Ringers' in which Jeremy Irons plays twin gynaecologists who develop a new instrument for use on mutant women. If you are anything at all like me I doubt you will read a better sentence in your life. The synopsis alone meant that when I eventually got around to watching it, I was fairly buzzed. I actually bought crisps and made tea for the occasion.

You should know now that none of this movie lived up to my expectations. What it did make me do, however, was ask myself a question that I feel no man or woman should ever have to ask themselves, and if you don't want this thought seared into the very fabric of your fragile brain I would suggest looking no further: "I wonder how I would react to the thought of Jeremy Irons and his retard-junkie clone joining in a Devils threesome with a ginger?"

Not well. The answer to that question for everyone that ever has or ever shall exist is 'not well'.

Two Girls One Cup no longer holds the same place in my heart, that's how awful the images in my head are. I can't close my eyes without seeing it. I can NEVER watch Die Hard 3 again.  I will remain flaccid and impotent until at the very least the next time I see a picture of Zooey Deschanel (................all better :D ) but worst of all, the most reprehensible thing about all this is, is that one or more of the people who read this will watch it now. It's like the video tape in The Ring and there's nothing we can do to stop it!

Well, I could have just not wrote this, but I'm not that sort of guy.


2 March 2012

Facebook Spiders

This is, in my eyes, the most pretentious thing I have ever done, and I say that full in the knowledge that I sleep under a print of Van Gogh's 'Starry Night'. However, I do have reasons for giving this a try: firstly, with only Facebook at my disposal I am limited to whoring out my musings a bit at a time and then checking every minute for the next hour to see how many likes I get. This is unproductive at best. A blog, however, will allow me to ejaculate all of my accumulated thoughts/rage/perceptions in one burst, saving me time and effort and therefore providing me with more opportunity to stalk people on Facebook.

Secondly, I'm curious. I'm curious to see if this will evolve into something, if anyone actually reads it and if I will actually stick to doing it. I doubt all of that, but I buy a lottery ticket every week just so I can validate my twice-daily millionaire fantasy under the assumption that if I want it to happen, I have to meet it half-way. If I want a legion of fans hanging on my every word*, I have to start somewhere.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I want somewhere to raise awareness about what is the most terrifyingly awful thing that we as a race must endure...spiders. Did you know that there is a type of spider that has evolved a way to breath under water? I'm sorry, I don't think you heard me - UNDER WATER. Now, when you flush a spider to it's righteous death down your bath plug-hole, know that it's just waiting. It has seen your face and is currently devising ways to revenge-kill you and your family as soon as you take that plug out. They hold grudges.

If it's an incentive at all to read my next attempt at this or even follow me, think of this as Batman Begins. A great movie, but it has nothing on The Dark Knight. (I just want to make it clear for everyone that yes, I am comparing myself to Batman and my writing to the work of Christopher Nolan. It brings us back nicely to how pretentious I am. And it's true.)

Humans unite!

*read 'every word' as 'crotch'.