Panda Porn

I spent some time thinking about this one – I'm making a come back and I want it to be more 'Take That' than 'All Saints' (I bet most of you didn't even know All Saints tried a come back. They did. Rock Steady. It's awful.) This is what I have landed upon. It's potentially my least dignified blog yet...

I have found a video online of a panda fucking Little Red Riding Hood.

Now, I'm putting this disclaimer up: if you are a family member, for the love of God and all that is Holy, do not reading any further. Just don't. If you do read any further (and it is perverse if you do), then don't tell me. I don't care if you get drunk at Christmas and are just dying to talk about it, what I am about to divulge is not an appropriate subject to broach over turkey and stuffing...or ever. If you really are that curious about where this is going, just keep it to yourself. Forever.

So, I found this video. Don't ask me what I typed into the search bar to find it, that's between me and my therapist. What is important is the game of chicken that I played with my brain in the seconds after my eyes glazed over it:

BRAIN: Mate...I bet you can't get off on that.

ME: What? Why the fuck would I even try to you sick bastard!

BRAIN: Firstly, if you don't, you're always going to wonder 'What if...'.

ME: There are some things that even I won't do.

BRAIN: Maybe, but this isn't one of them.

ME: How do you know?

BRAIN: You are currently in the middle of lighting candles, locking the door and putting an Enya CD on.

ME: Shit. What's the second reason?

BRAIN: I am the boss of you and you are my bitch. Now GO!

Yes, I clicked the link. No, I am not proud of myself. It wasn't even the usual sort of shame that comes with this sort of extra curricular activity (you know, when you look at the screen, then at your hand, then back at the screen and wonder what the hell went wrong in your life to make Japanese tentacle porn a viable option?) it was more of a 'Oh God...what have I done?! What sort of monster am I?!' Like I had genuinely inflicted damage on someone. Remember that thing that went about a few years ago “Every time you masturbate, God kills a kitten. Think of the kittens.” well it felt as though I had seen the hand of God come down and muder-kill a kitten in front of it's helpless cat-mum then point at me and tell me it was all my fault just as a solitary diamond tear ran down his cheek.

This feeling soon passed though, at which point I gained enough outside perspective to ask; “Who the hell made this? For what purpose?” and after what must have been minutes of speculation, the very best I could come up with was that a hardcore 'Save The Panda' hippie has become so consumed with his frustration that pandas refuse to fuck each other, that the only way for him to exorcise his demons concerning this was to actually film a big, hulking man panda absolutely devastate the personification of innocence itself, sweet little Red Riding Hood. If you have a better theory, please post it in the comments, because I need to have my faith in humanity restored somehow.

The lesson to take from this ream of debauchery? FUCK PANDAS. I don't care if you want to take that literally or metaphorically, but one way or the other, FUCK PANDAS. They are pointless, stupid animals who get far too much money and attention when all they want is to die out. Let the pandas fade away with the little dignity they have left. And no matter what you find yourself having to delete from your browsing history, there is always someone who has to delete worse :)

Dont forget to click 'Join This Site' at the side or 'like' the Passive Aggressive Release Facebook page!

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!

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 :)

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!

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!

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!

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' :)