The circumstances of the event are very much specific to the event. That is why when speaking of it we must be exceptionally careful to be specific about what we mean by the causes and learn from them.
LUV xoxo
Tag Archives: satire
Je suis Charlie
Je suis Charlie
#JeSuisCharlie
Official Promo’ Vid’ Advert for Raph Shirley’s YouTube Channel on YouTube now!
Humbly yours,
The continuing adventures of Jackie Smith
Just because you’re no longer MP for Redditch doesn’t mean you still don’t care about issues. On the contrary, you live an exciting life of stuff that happens to you and others.
See you round,
XOXO
Ahmad Lotfi Ashtiani launches internet cartoon competition
Emergency extra blog post.
I just read this in the Guardian.
Iranian MP, Ahmad Lotfi Ashtiani, took offence to a cartoon by Mahmoud Shokraye. The cartoonist was then sentenced to 25 lashes for the crime. Ashtiani has therefore, in playing with the serpents tail, effectively challenged the global internet to produce as foul a portrait as possible.
Here is my humble offering.
Yours faithfully,
A proposal concerning a change of use for Buckingham Palace
Due to a freedom of information request I have come into possession of this letter from government records. It seems to be a memo from George Osborne to David Cameron. I decided to risk libel action for publishing it, for ethical/heroic reasons.
To The Rt Hon David Cameron MP Prime Minister,
As you know, the Royal Family is currently enjoying a period of unparalleled public adoration, similar to, for instance, the initial popularity of Adolf Hitler. We, the people, collectively recognise that it offers significant value for money in terms of increased tourism revenue and national branding. All the proposals contained herein, stem from these facts, which I hold to be self evident truths. I hope that you will implement my recommendations in time for the forthcoming Olympics festival of sport and the crowd-pleasing Jubilee rally, so that we can profit from the unique set of current circumstances and use them to maintain our position on the global stage (that of spotlight operator).
Therefore/thus even the most earnest misanthropic republican will agree that it follows naturally that we should do everything in our power to promote, expand, and capitalise on this important asset. I am of course suggesting that Buckingham Palace be converted into a brothel. Up to 90% of American visitors to London, are attracted to the Theatre district and are most likely perverts driven more by the sordid honey of Soho. The Queen herself would be a highly sell-able commodity to these tourists and the prices we could charge, along with substantial gains from auctioning off the lower level staff would more than cover the losses made due to lower sales of Jubilee memorial coins by elderly people who will doubtless be against these proposals, along with everything else, as per usual. The over sixties are after all the last prim generation, and these important modernising steps will be shunned by them in the same way that they can not and will not understand the internet.
Figure 1. Possible flyer design.
Kate Middleton’s sexual attractiveness accounts for eight tenths of tabloid interest in the new couple (a canny pairing Hague! You showed a lot of foresight, mate). With her and William doing two shows an hour at one thousand pounds per ticket and an audience of three hundred, we could write off our debts, which were handed down to us by the last Labour government, in a couple of years, probably.
However, adult entertainment is not the only obvious use for the Royal Family. I suggest the bulk of the grounds be sold to Disney, who have a better record than HM government for producing trashy, cliché driven tourist attractions and aggressively engineering sinister global brands. It might also be sensible to use the smaller buildings on the palace grounds for manufacture and distribution of narcotics, again a very profitable enterprise and a valid inference from the argument from increased tourist revenue. If so, it is important to maintain the current practice (in line with Disney policy anyway) of only having one Queen visible at any point (the actors, or “Queenettes”, will be paid minimum wage).
I have one further possible suggestion, admittedly not so mild as the inevitable changes I highlight above. Working on the conservative assumption that the queen human can operate at 50% the efficiency of a queen ant (100 eggs/hour) she could share the burden of propagation and save the humiliation and cost of child rearing for a generation of young couples. The ordinary people are not capable of asexual parthenogenesis and can only produce 2 or 3 a decade at best under modern financial and social constraints. Perhaps everyone reaching thirty years of age could be sent an egg from the queen to put in a plant pot and then it turns into a baby clone of the Queen for them to cherish forever. I also recommend building a boat.
I finish with an ode to our queen that I suggest we sing at the opening of Disney BrothelTM.
The queen human lays an egg a minute
She puts her perfect genes in it
May her reign be infinite
And this metaphor hold out for two more stanzas
Her nest is as big as any other
May I make food for our mother?
Or should I say lover?
No, that’s too much
Bottle her jelly!
Ebay her welly
Sell every inch of her belly
To Network South East or First Capital Connect.
Yours sincerely,
The Dishonourable Gideon Osborne.
Thanks for watching,
.
The remarkable achievements attained in the field of neuroscience
The current state of the art is described and critiqued. Avenues for further work are set forth and discussed. A prediction is made.
Using only one single five million dollar functional magnetic resonance imaging machine, Professor Veronica Smith produces a picture of my brain. Over coffee she talks me through the picture and explains her latest results, which suggests that thinking is not done in the brain, as commonly thought, but rather is done by the kidneys. In turn she believes that the main function of the brain is to ‘clean the blood’ and ‘frazzle the bejazzle out of snazzle-pops’. I’m visiting the Department of Cognitive Science at University College Hospital along with a handful of other journalists drawn by the seemingly rash claims of the group.
Early primitive attempt to render character visible, alongside a more accurate modern version (of gubbins).
Professor Smith has managed to impose a complete use of the passive voice upon all her employees in order to develop what she calls a ‘pure science’. By speaking entirely in this rudimentary language composed of subject predicate object triangle sentences she claims to have removed any possibility of error or evil. We are drinking some liquid brain fuel when the Professor presents me with a peculiar triangle sentence suggesting that our bodies might be too strange. Instead she suggests she may be able to ‘blend’ us into a sphere, or at the very least some sort of cuboid.
I’m given permission to speak to a number of other members of the group, each of whom reveal startling facts about the nature of research taking place in the building. There seems to be a complex ecosystem of men and women forming a large super-hierarchy. Money is dripping in to the mouth of Professor Smith and is trickling down over a champagne glass tower of employment. At ground level a base layer of humanoid foundations holds the entire structure. Using the triangle forms to bind the humanoids, Smith has crafted a congealed mass of brain organs supported by super brains and sub brains, with snacks fetched by the body brains.
“It is now possible to measure which, if any, regions of the brain are alive during a quiz while showing the subject photographs of a kitten in peril” – Dr Smurthwaite.
As each flesh unit morphs to spheroid the pyramid smothers into shape. The sides become slides to ejections and incepts leaving flaming gasses oozing from the cracks. It is a sight to behold and goes some way to explaining the remarkable achievements that have been made here. The future of Neuroscience is in safe hands!
Yours in truth,
Presentation to GreenLight
Here’s a little light relief before we get into the blog proper:
One of the great things about being a programmer for one of the largest solar panel manufacturers in the south east is you get to do a lot of travelling. This week, I was going to Newcastle to give a talk on account management systems to GreenLight; a fellow green power company.
I arrived at the Newcastle travelodge around 6pm. I’d had a tough train journey and fancied a litre or two of strong lager, or as I say ‘I’ll have a lagerita, neither shaken nor stirred’ before explaining exactly what I mean by that. I walk in to town and go the local Wetherspoons (I know!). It was actually, a lovely little place. An old university lecture theatre with a number of interesting pictures on the wall.
By closing time I’m drunk as a carefree business guru and head back to my temp pad. I’m singing like a bloomin’ mad man mate! I stumble through the streets filled with those few of years and fewer of clothing (two years blogging for Two Hour Blogger equips one to turn a pretty sweet phrase, often inside of half an hour), but exercise enough restraint not to shout and merely fall over six times. But wait! I’ve noticed something. Something beautiful! A small entrance in the wall leads to a multicoloured rainbow escalator (not in a gay way (not in a homophobic way (regret nested parentheses))). I climb on and ascend into the antechamber of a shopping centre. Lo, I’m greeted at the top by a gigantic Christmas tree. It is a great hollow cone of tinsel that you can walk under and look inside.
I go underneath it. I look into the eye of the Christmas tree… and I pass out.
I woke up at 9am on the floor of the shopping centre. The Christmas tree hanging above me is like a big sick inducing finger down my throat now (again, I think yule agree my extensive blogging experience shows). Shit! 9am! Shit! I have to be at the presentation. I get there and I decide to come clean and tell them the above ;-) I can tell by their feigned embarrassment that they are deeply impressed. It is clear these guys need to be taught a thing or two about partying! And taught/party hard!
Afterwards, I’m informed by email that they will not be offering us the contract. In hindsight it was a mistake to tell them I was drunk presenting. I craft a perfectly worded email to me’ boss painting them as a backward company who don’t understand how powerful the internet is. I mean, that is basics! I add a little joke about me giving them a business 101. I’m confident I won’t be fired and at most will receive a harsh telling off. Nothing that my rearrangement of the secret Santa and purchase of a hilarious card for my boss, which makes a cheeky accusation of infidelity at his wife (hinging around a Christmas based demi-pun), can’t solve.
Galileo you absolute wuss!
Galileo
The earth moves.
Vatican
Say that again and we’ll kill you.
Galileo
Did I say it does move? I meant it doesn’t. Where do I sign?
Socrates took the hemlock, Jesus bore the cross, and Galileo did a runner.
I would have stood up for my beliefs like I do with this web log every week,
Terminator X: Abomination
One of the major advantages of running your own zine is that you get to work with some great geeks. One day while I was hangin’ out in Forbidden Planet I was recognised (eugghh) by a fellow weblogger. He knew all too well the ongoing battle between me and SexyPete99. Don’t worry, he’s on our side! Anyway we got to chattin’ over a mocha at the local independent coffee house (he had a cappuchino) (Has Beans, Guildford high street – check it out).
He knew a lot more about computer programming than I do (and I know alot – coding for one of the largest solar panel installation companies in the South East has some effect bro) and he said he could set up a special webzone to allow opensource writing projects. Err, yes please! This is the result. Enjoy!!
Terminator X: Abomination
‘If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.’ – Leviticus 20:13, King James Bible.
Thuds and cracks flash over the sky casting a shimmering blue light over the Terminator’s rippling, scarred, and massive pectoral muscles. I’m hungry. We haven’t eaten since May, which was almost two days ago now, and even then it was some rat’s brother. I wondered if the machine really needed all that living tissue over his metal endoskeleton. Could some be spared for a barbecue? From somewhere you never see like his anus? “You must sleep, the human resistance depends on you John, you have a long day tomorrow” said the machine, coyly. I said I knew he was right and asked if he could try to catch another rat in the morn. “Affirmative” he said, coyly.
It must have been another two hours before I awoke again. This time it was a huge cannon fire on the horizon. The machine tutted, coyly. To my surprise he lay behind me, spooning. “What are you doing?” I demanded. “Survival probability is increased if humans are kept warm at night”. For a second I thought I detected… flirtation? No, surely not. I laid back down and shut my eyes. “Do you have… needs?”. “I require a constant power source, and can only operate between 100 and 1000 degrees Kelvin and…” I cut him off. “No… I mean… sexual needs” he paused. “I was programmed to be asexual, however it is possible to reset the motherboard” My mouth dropped, coyly. “The original infantry models were homosexual but they were withdrawn after the catastrophe of the omega wars” My eyes literally popped open. “Since then we were programmed to not ask nor tell” I couldn’t believe it.
The battle against the machines is a long and arduous campaign and every soldier needs some R and R. But this? This was shocking. I’ve seen a lot o’ things since the nuclear war. But this?! I mean, it is his job to maximise the chances of the resistance. If that means improving my mental health and making me a more effective leader then… But this?!?!
Suddenly, everything started to fit together. That is why I sent him back in time! My husband is the only person I can trust to protect me. And he knew the whole time! The whole time? The whole time. We were married in the morning and lived happily for 3 short years before it was time to send him back. We had lost the war. Sending him back was my last act as leader of the resistance before we set off the Cyberdyne global destruction device and everything was gone. Somehow the eternal cycle seemed good enough. Those three years of marital bliss with that kind man were worth the annihilation of mankind. Because if a machine can learn the value of the institution of gay marriage… maybe we can too.
“We sent Lot and he said to his people, ‘How can you practice this outrage? No other people has done so before. You lust after men rather than women! You transgress all bounds!’ The only response his people gave was to say [to one another], ‘Drive them out of your town! These men want to keep themselves chaste!’ We saved him and his kinfolk – Apart from his wife who stayed behind – and We showered upon [the rest of] them a rain [of destruction]. See the fate of the evildoers.” – 7.80-7.84 Qu’ran, translated by M. A. S. Abdel Haleem.
The End.
And SexyPete99 thought T1 was better! Unbelievable!
We’re currently working on a TNG prequel. Watch this space!
Live long and prosper,
The disgusting nature and exploits of the rose
In which I set forth the vulgar behaviour of the garden rose and ask that we reconsider our love affair with it lest we be dragged into the filth along with.
One doesn’t need to invent devils to witness the true horror of the world. One need only look in the garden to see the murder and chaos. The bleak terror of the roses’ perverse interspecies sex acts. The red light to young insect. The invitation to oblivion. And mine own heart is drawn by the flower whores. I have taken from the cup of nature and had my soul torn.
And it is science that has revealed these nightmares of the universe. The harlots! The mistresses of thorn, seducers of bee, and ruin of man. Off with her dead head!
Your humble advisor,
The twentieth century: a pantomime
I have just been commissioned by Surrey County Council to write the 2011 Guildford pantomime. I have decided to write a light hearted look at the twentieth century. There will be one minute for every year.
The characters:
- The dame – capitalism
- The villain – totalitarianism
- The hero – democracy
- The love interest – socialism
Plot summary:
The show will consist of ten scenes, one for each decade. For each new decade the dame will get a new dress. The final scene will be a cocktail party on the roof of the twin towers.
News flash – Surrey County Council has just cancelled the contract.
SIMPLY OUTRAGEOUS
Oh my gosh, this is simply outrageous!
This image is best enjoyed to the sound of ***.
Please enjoy this image ***,
It said yes!
Your presence will never be associated with honour.
Our gift list is available at Game. We also accept cash or cheque.
Cheers,
D.A.D. X
Dad And Dangerous. We are all only too familiar with the problem of problem youths being problematic. Well, DAD X couldn’t take it no more. He has therefore gone well and truly berserk.
Love from
xxx
Steiff ‘Catherine’ royal wedding teddy bear
Please do not order now on 01924 362510 or at www.peterjoneschina.com
Ta,
CYBORG R.A.T. 9 Gaming Mouse
Hardcore gamers like myself have long debated that great quandary; is there such a thing as the perfect gaming mouse? Well, I’m sorry to say to the doubters (not mentioning any names SexyPete99) this IS it:
Figure 1. The CYBORG R.A.T. 9 Gaming Mouse, £84.99. Taken from benchmarkreviews.com.
Whether committing acts of violent murder in It’s Genuinely A Crime: Las Vegas or worser [sic] travesties such as spell checking “Lady Gargar” (not mentioning any names SexyPete99) this mouse gives you all the support you need.
Oh yes,
An excerpt from World of Warcraft online voice chat system:
Me: ‘Why did you buy industrial whisky…you idiot’
SexyPete99: ‘pardon’
beat
Me: ‘I said why did you buy industrial whisky…you idiot’
Made irrelevant
Dear Mr Shirley,
I regret to inform you (yes, I am aware of the absurdity of pre-emptively regretting something I am about to do) that we are unable to offer you a position at this time/ever. Unfortunately, we give preference to applicants who do not do ‘their impressions’ at interview. Furthermore, your recreation of the voice from Disney Blu-ray adverts was not as accurate as you had promised and too esoteric.
In addition to the reason already given, which would be enough in itself, we also do not hire people who have recently been made redundant and certainly not those who have been made irrelevant by us. If I remember correctly, you were made irrelevant after repeatedly referring to our high grade fuel as ‘the black docter’, which is probably racist, definitely spelt wrong, and most importantly, utterly non-sensical. We do not tolerate that sort of shit in this organisation.
Once again, I apologise for the unfortunate incident of me having to bring you this bad news at this sad time in the current economic climate.
Yours sincerely,
Peter Voser
CEO/Head Cleaner
Shell Oil PLC
Shell Oil is an equal opportunities employer (except for morons who are given slightly reduced opportunities). Present this rejection letter at one of our many stations and receive 10% off any fuel purchase; simply quote “loser’s deal”.
Embarrassing man makes ok point in argument
A deeply embarrassing man yesterday punched above his weight and made a number of insightful remarks in a conversation with friends. His long suffering buddies all commented on the unfortunate absence of people to impress when the socially awkward city worker wittily responded to comments made in an article in the Metro newspaper.
‘The article was about the average earning of Britons. I just thought some of the points made were a bit off the mark. So I criticised them.’ Shortly after telling the story to reporters he began to slip and his conversation returned to the deadening horror of a man with no purpose, no promise, no joy.
‘Usually I can’t bare to see him, but yesterday for a couple minutes he was all right’. When asked if the two shocked onlookers would consider meeting him more often the responses were less than optimistic. ‘To be honest, I think it was probably a one off’.
Sabotage
