Fucking dieting

What the fucking hell am I supposed to eat?  As an adult (ha ha ha ha) I should know by now how to eat properly, shouldn’t I?  But I don’t.  This modern technological era is stuffed with so much fucking information and uninformation and misinformation and superfoods and evil undigestible foods, probiotics and prebiotics, opinions from people who are expert food eaters and opinions from people who shouldn’t really be allowed such things, doctors and dieticians and Nigella Lawson and other chefs making delicious foods and there is a tag for food porn and how can you not eat that stuff all the time?!?!?!?!  It’s left me at a complete and total loss as to what I am supposed to be doing.  Evidence supplied below.


I decided I needed a regime change when I found myself in McDonalds one day, putting the chicken nuggets inside the burger and demanding more BBQ sauce.  Although I’m not overweight, I felt a growing need to treat my body more like a machine requiring quality fuel than a vessel in training for ingestion of the Dark Lord Satan.  So that night, after several bowls of country crisp cereal and at least three lion bars, the research begins.

I embarked on the quest to create my own diet plan, as I didn’t want to do any of those weird things people do like the one where you cut out every carb in existance, or where you stop eating meat (ugh).  Just a normal diet for a normal person, one where you aren’t required to source insane hippy-esque ingredients and which wouldn’t require me to give up on living, as counting the calories in everything I ate would only make me want to kill myself.  This is the most difficult thing I have ever done ever in my entire life.  Ever.  Sifting through the insane amount of available information caused me to become one of THOSE people.  You know the types.  The stage 2.


Now equipped with an insane amount of information about food, and no memory of anything for the past 4 years.  Not that it was possible for me to put any of this marvelously useful information into practice, as everything I wanted to eat had some kind of dire health consequence, and all the stuff you’re supposed to be eating is more expensive than bull semen and tastes worse, too.  Taking me to a supermarket would take at least two hours.  I became unable to buy anything remotely close to being considered essential.  Trying to make meals out of blueberries, bananas, lean chicken, lemons and green tea ain’t for the faint of heart.  Also, brown rice.  I became obsessed with brown rice as my idiot brain was convinced white rice was poison.  But brown rice tastes like shit and takes twice the time to cook.  Thankfully, I saw sense eventually and went back to the proper curry accompaniment with gusto, but for a month or two there, I embraced the darkness.  Bwah.

This insane amount of information started taking over my social life as well.  I’d absorbed so much information that it started spilling out into normal conversations.  When someone was telling me about a hooker who could shoot a banana from her loveglove to her friend’s mouth, I went on some insane tangent about the radioactivity of the average banana and how there’s a real-life scale based on it called the “banana equivalent”.  Naturally, no-one invited me to parties for a while.  Couldn’t go to a buffet without having some sort of crisis.  Stage 2.  Fucking hell.  Thankfully, it doesn’t last forever and once I relaxed a bit, everything became a bit more normal.


After trying to deal with eating only the most super of foods, and failing faster than a chocolate fireguard, I slowly started to allow normal food back into my life.  Milk and cheese crept in through the cat flap, with bowed heads and avoiding eye contact, promising not to hurt me, and whatever they had done, they were sorry.  Bread sent a series of reminders that it was still a thing, and maybe we should get back together, eh?  Missed you too, bread.  Bacon had been peering at me through the window for days and, before I knew what was going on, beer, vodka and class A drugs kicked down the door like the Glasgow Met, screaming “GET US INSIDE YOU, YOU FUCKING ANIMAL!”  Life went from gloriously healthy to just fucking glorious.


Repeat stage 2 and 3 until you forget who you even are.


I wish I knew what this was, but I am still on stage 4.  AH! – just kidding.  Finally, the balance is restored.  Sort of.  A very British sort of balance, where from monday morning to friday afternoon you eat and drink and fuck normally.  There is a set routine and a boring diet and only missionary or reverse cowgirl positions allowed.  You will experience, at least once, the entire week go by on auto-pilot.  Then, from friday 1700 hours until monday 0700 hours, it’s a free-for-all-anything-goes-let’s-‘ave-it-all-out-frenzy.  See me swan dive into a bowl of chilli nachos and wash it down with a pint of bacon double cheeseburger and a bottle of sticky toffee pudding.  Pizza slut for breakfast.  48 hours of doggy style.  Snorting the salt with tequila shots.  Was that really salt?  Hallucinogenics, motherfucker.  Pouring vast quantities of maple syrup all over my body and absorbing it through my skin.  Frying french toast in bacon grease.  Using lard for lubricant.  Christmas dinner every sunday.  Chicken fried church.  Booze.  So much fucking booze.  Whatever you puke up can be replaced with the hangover breakfast.  Full english with double everything and a bowl of chips on top.  Swap that fried tomato for extra baked beans.  Coffee with 5 sugars and whipped cream.  I don’t even fucking like coffee, I just wanted to eat the cream.  In fact, just bring me the can of whipped cream and I will unload the entire fucking thing into my mouth.  Oh, Satan!  Halleluja!

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Harry thinks about films and makes a list.

I spent a lot of time watching films & TV when I was on my last adventure, as we were in the middle of the ocean with nothing else to do, and no one wanted to be the first to suggest an orgy.  The problem with watching a high volume of films & TV programs is that you will invariably come across something that is not to your taste or, more honestly, something that is pure shit.  I came across a lot of shit.  Shall I write about the good stuff instead and how it was all well produced and written well and the actors were all on form?  No.  They have award shows where they can suck each other’s dicks in public.  The last thing they need is more fucking praise.  In that same spirit, I present to you Harry Peat’s most wonderful and completely accurate film awards list!  (Actual quotes, not always from my wordy orifice.)

“What the fuck is this thing about?” – Mulholland Drive (can’t have a film list without including every film studies student’s favourite conversation piece, can we?)

“Is it just me or is this film actually just a giant ball of sex jokes?” – Leon the professional

“Should have read the script – you’re better than this.” – Kal Penn in Epic Movie

“Did it even have a script?” – Lost, everything after series 2

“So who’s supposed to be the good one?” – Ray Donovan series 1

“I have no idea what the hell is going on.” – Eraserhead (nobody knows, and I’m not sure if anybody cares either)

“How did something this shit get made?!” – Beverly Hills Ninja

Ok, seriously, have you fucking seen this utter piece of shit?  Beverly Hills Ninja is literally the worst film I have ever seen.  I gave it a chance because I saw Chris Rock’s name on the credits, and now I know better.  The fact that someone produced it – someone went into their pocket and financed this steaming bowl of diarrhea – makes me despair.  At one point I’m pretty sure I said “I hope that fat cunt dies” and was told he was dead and my response was something along the lines of “Did he kill himself for making such a shitty film?”.  Not one funny moment.  Less than 0 out of 10.  Shame on people who paid to see this thing.  Would rather watch all of Paris Hilton’s “My new BFF” than 10 minutes of anything with Chris Farley in it.

“Worst fucking evil bad guy thing ever.” – Oblivion

“Fuck me!  I didn’t see that coming!” – Botched (it’s awful, but it’s genius)

“Just throw the disc in the ocean and save future people from seeing this thing.” – The Last Kung fu Monk

“Bwah, his sister isn’t even hot!” – Game of Thrones series 1, episode 1, you know the bit.  (Apparently watched this with Hank Hill)

“How are we supposed to just go on living our lives normally after watching this?  We could be rich!” – Breaking Bad

“If it wasn’t for the hot one, I probably would have switched it off after 10 minutes.” – Mean Girls 2

“Talk about someone’s wish fulfillment!” – 100 girls (no, it’s not a porn – yes, it is fucking awful – in fact. . .)

Yeah, let’s take a minute to use this thing as an example of bad writing.  This preachy, self-indulgent nonsense was clearly someone writing their own private fantasy story and managed to make a film about it.  Of course, it’s the main character who ruins it, as he is the glorious infallible hero, with no flaws whatsoever, and he is super perceptive of all other people, and if only they were more like him there wouldn’t be any conflict between men and women!  Oh saviour of the gender wars!  You’ll be on the edge of your seat as he tells his women’s studies teacher what’s what!  He knows everything about women, what can this closed-minded college professor possibly teach him?  And his incredible impassioned speech at the end has every girl throwing themselves at him!  He can have any girl he wants!  If you even make it to the end – the fact he’s narrating everything (oh yes – fucking EVERYTHING and at EVERY OPPERTUNITY) will also ruin this experience for you.  It took me three tries to watch past the first 15 minutes.  There’s one point where I hoped the main character would get raped, but unfortunately he doesn’t.  Shame.  Moving on –

“Fuck you, Justin Timberlake!” – Alpha Dog

“One laugh in 45 minutes?  Worth it.” – Something something something darkside (Family guy)

“Still funny after 10 watches.” – Your Highness (absofuckinglutely)

“Is it over yet?” – Zodiac

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Harry returns to delete some shit and replace it with some different shit

Title says is all.

I returned to this blog to read the shit I wrote and I did not like it.  At least not the latest pieces of crap that had spewed themselves forth from an angry orifice.  So, in the spirit of a new year (New me – woo!  Look, I’m a middle aged woman who still can’t put down the gin despite the fact it’s now the 45th day of Christmas) I have removed the offending articles and will be replacing them with some other, hopefully sweeter-smelling shit.  It’ll still be shit, so lower your expectations (“If that’s even possible” – anyone who read my blog before).

The plan was originally to be creative – but that’s hard.  It is very hard to be creative, especially if you don’t take criticism well.  It’s even harder to be creative when you’ve not written anything for, like, ages, you know?  Like, getting your, um, you know, . . . words to be sound good make sense for what meaning you wants is hard.  Like a penis.  As strong as a horse’s leg, yet delicate as a flower wrapped in silk. . . .  Sorry, went on a bit of a tangent there.  Instead of being creative in this post, I shall be critical of something.  Because that is easy.  It’s super easy.  Like taking candy from a shop in the 90’s, when security cameras weren’t a thing, and people trusted each other (the FOOLS! Hahahahah!).  So today, for the 1st time in some amount of time (not checking how long it’s been – who has the time?), Harry Peat reviews a book that sucked utter balls!

Jude the Obscure, by Tommy Hardy (or Mr Boner, as he will be known here) is the worst thing I have ever read.  The book was given to me by my mother and I have not forgiven her yet.  There is something in my nature that forces me to see things through to the bitter end, even if it’s a terrible thing (hence my return to this writing nonsense) and I read EVER LAST WORD of that fucking book.  If you plan on reading Mr Boner’s “most outspoken novel” know this – reading it is entirely masochistic.  Every chapter, every page, every sentance.  Not one part of this book is enjoyable.  Only two characters are tolerable (and they barely feature in it).  This book is torture.  Let’s begin.

The story of Jude, summarised.  He is living with his old aunt because he is like a pussy batman (no parents, yo).  He cannot work with animals because he feels for them.  He gets whipped for being such a pussy & letting birds eat a farmers seeds.  He wants to go to university and be a scholar (because he wants to be better than other people) but is still a child and an idiot.  Growing up, he tries to study by himself and is becoming a stone mason at the same time.  Ugh.  Then, he is seduced by a woman who hits him in the face with a pig’s severed cock.  She is wonderful.  I liked her a lot, the buxom tavern wench.  She pretends to be up the duff to force Jude to marry her, then is dissatisfied with him (because what woman wouldn’t be) and leaves him to go to Australia (she returns later to not watch Jude die).  Jude fucks off to Christminster to try & go to university and also to creep on his cousin who lives there.  He is insanely in love with his cousin.  After stalking her for a while he accidentaly gets her married to some teacher (old creeper) he used to know, and gets depressed, and then gets drunk for the 2nd time in his life.  He decides he is an alcoholic, and since he can’t go to university he moves to become a priest.  What a wanker.  Remember also that all this time he is a stonemason, obsessing over his cousin.  He stalks his cousin some more, convinces her to run away with him and they pretend to get married because his cousin is the most annoying cocktease ever in the history of literature.  She spends all her time leading Juse on and then denying him at the last second because she is married to that old creeper.  The old creeper’s life is ruined because he lets Jude’s cousin go (personally, I would have had her burned as a witch) and he lives miserably ever after (she later goes back and marries him again, but the damage is already done).  So Jude is now banging his cousin and they are both ashamed.  Then Jude’s bastard child (hated this kid more than I’ve ever hated a character before) shows up from Australia and they look after him.  At some point Jude’s aunt dies.  Jude’s ex is all up in Jude’s grill for a while but she backs off, waiting until she can remarry him because she is poor and has needs.  Jude & his cousin squirt out a couple offspring of their own and Jude forces them back to Christminster because he is still obsessed with being a scholar.  His children all die, his cousin goes back to her husband, Jude goes back to his ex, Jude’s ex leaves him to die alone while she goes out to flirt with other (more worthy) men.  Jude dies.  The fucking end.

Mr Boner’s work here shows the stark contrasts in all people’s personalities, and the futility of man’s attempt to change his own nature.  It’s a shame he had to do it with characters who reflect the worst combinations of unlikeable qualities (some of which we are unable to ignore in ourselves post reading) that people are like to posess.  In Jude we see the true meaning of being a pussy, being utterly ignorant of the world and it’s requirements, a desire to be able to look down on people, pathetic self pity, and general patheticness.  In his cousin Sue, we see a fucking bitch.  Seriously, she is such a manipulative whingeing cocktease who knows exactly what she is doing and I didn’t even feel sorry for her when all her children die.  She is actually that unlikeable.  Hats off to Mr Boner for creating the most hateble female character of all time.  Also, Jude’s fucking bastard fucking child.  He is misery made flesh in prose.  But not real, deserving misery.  He is teenage angsty misery, unreasonable self pitying misery, based only on himself and not taking anything else into account.  His glass is half empty so he tips it over.  Fuck him – I’m glad he dies.

1 out of 10, would not read again.

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The Mediocre Gatsby

While away on my last adventure (slaying mighty behemoths and the like) I had some free time to read a book, and found “the Great Gatsby”.  I chose to read it mostly because there’s a film been made of it, and that usually says something about the popularity/quality of a book when hollywood reckons it’ll make a shitton (official measurement used by top studio executives) of money.  I was actually rather excited to have found a decent book in such a minimal library, but then I read it. 


To put it mildly, this book is boring.  Really fucking boring.  Hardly anything happens, the narrative is a pain in the anus to read, and I couldn’t care less about a bunch of rich twats drinking in mansions (or whatever the hell it was they were “doing”).   The only part of it I even remotely liked was the ending, as this is where stuff actually happens.  Gatsby dies at the end because he couldn’t get his hole with this Daisy bird, so they run over her husbands’ bit on the side whose husband tries to murder Gatsby but dies, then Gatsby just up and dies as well.  Spoiler alert, even this sequence of events is told at the pace of geriatric internet use, making it about as exciting as eating a raw potato, but with the rest of the book being so boring as to enduce somnambulism (not even a word of the day – I just know this word) towards a less boring activity it’s quite a welcome read. 


My disappointment aside, why the fuck did they make a film out of this?  Why is it considered a great novel?  In fact, why is it considered THE “great American novel”?  I read a bit on the background of this raw potato, and it was given to American troops during WW2 (dubya dubya twoooo!) as something to do when they weren’t arriving years too late and trying to take credit despite being partly Nazi sympathisers (another story).  So this novel became popular through the army, which is America’s favourite thing (admit it, you love the army almost as much as you love eagles and frying things as if they’re chicken when they aren’t chicken) so naturally the whole country had a massive boner for it.  Well, mabe it’s time you jizzed over the raw potato and moved on.  Let that boner down.  Watch what is bound to be the biggest let-down in years of filmmaking and let’s agree to read something less fucking boring in future.


On this last adventure, I also read the novel which became “Blade runner” and it’s really good.  I didn’t even like the film, but the book is decent.  Stuff happens.  There’s an electric sheep in it, and many deep questions about mortality and what makes us human and our nature and destruction and just read it the next time you think of picking up the not-so-fucking-great Gatsby.









The product in this advert will give you AIDS.

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She’s got the talent, but can we sell it?

The X factor is going to be spoiling my weekends for a while.  My woman has been watching it in my absence and now has committed to seeing it to the end, so I’ll probably be inadvertantly listening to it for the next few weeks.  Best to get the whinging about it out of the way now, I suppose.

Fuck you, Simon Cowell.  I hope you die.  I honestly don’t care how as long as it happens soon.  You will die in my lifetime (I’ll make fucking sure to live until you’re dead) and I will celebrate your death.  When Simon Cowell dies, I’ll be reacting in the same manner that Wales’s mining towns reacted to the death of Thatcher.  There WILL be parades, there WILL be fireworks, there WILL be a blood sacrifice to show my gratitude.  Fuck you, Cowell and everything you do.  Manufacturing more shit, lining your pockets on other people’s talent because your only talent is being a smug cunt, cutting the cultural throat of our nation and drinking it’s still warm blood.  That last bit was a quote from some bird on “Mock the Week” years ago that has always stuck with me.  It describes what Simon Cowell has done rather well, I think.

These “talent” shows don’t have much talent on them.  You can tell just by looking at them who’s going to go through to the judges’ mansions and who’s going back home to end it all.  The show’s actually all about the judges, and their totally important and valuable opinions on who’s got “the X factor”.  This is basically “who’s going to sell the most singles at Christmas that we can capitalise on”.  The contestants just have to sing a familiar song (something that’s popular already and is likely to boost sales) and have a tragic backstory.  The real hard part is deciding which contestant will be putting the crimbo single out.  The judges get all emotional, rejecting people all day, so we need to cut them some slack.  We need to start a fucking charity for these hard-done-by cretins.  These people have it SO FUCKING HARD.  They have to choose between the guy who sang a song, and the other guy who sang a song!  Both guys are so similarly talented, and both have equally tragic backstories, and these poor souls have to DECIDE WHICH ONE TO SEND HOME!  They might as well be sending someone to their grave if they send them home, because these contestants have just GOT TO WIN IT!  It means so much to them, and it’s in the judges hands!  I can’t keep this up.  Fuck this pish.

How can anyone still give a fuck about this charade?  You all know it’s emotionally manipulative, consumerist, elitist, self-serving shit, right?  You know it’s a money-spinning, media-whoring, ego-raping turd-circus, right?  You know it’s a wallet-buggering, culture-murdering shower of cretins selling you plastic-packaged teeny-bopper ear-spunk, right?  Right?

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Where can I find the Paedofinder General?

I hate children.  They’re noisy and stupid and touch things with sticky fingers and they smell and scream and cry for no particular reason and they’re ugly too.  Your child is particularly hideous.  The worst thing I can imagine is having to be in the same room as a screaming baby and a bunch of people all cooing over it like it’s something special.  Passing it to each other and saying “A goo-goo doh boh, who’s a baby?” and other cretinous things.  Praising it for shitting itself and the like.  Bwah.  The fact that people love babies confuses me on a number of levels, but I acknowledge that it is a thing, mostly just a mothering/fathering instinct thing, and people are going to do it.  What I despise is the marketing department that sells to these people.


Consider for a moment what you see on the packaging of a box of nappies.  Probably pictures of a baby in a nappy.  Maybe pictures of the mum wiping her baby’s already clean bum.  Maybe not, though.  Maybe the marketing department has gone a bit too far.  Maybe it’s just a picture of a naked baby. 


That marketing department has just made you look at a naked baby.  You didn’t make that choice – they are responsible for shoving that image in front of you.  What you should think about is the fact that someone was paid to film that baby naked.  In fact, think about the guy above him on the corporate paedo ladder, who said “Hey, I know.  Let’s put a naked baby on the box!”.  Hell, let’s go further.  The Paedo seargent above him probably had a study done.  Targeted marketing towards people with newborn babies, showing them a collection of naked baby images and gauging their reaction, coming to the conclusion that the strongest emotive response came from seeing a naked baby in a particular pose, of a particular ethnicity and with a particular expression on it’s ugly fucking face and then brought this information to the lunchtime meeting.  So they put naked babies in the adverts, on the boxes, in your God damn face.  Doesn’t it make you a bit uncomfortable that they use naked pictures of babies to sell you stuff?  Think of how much effort they put into taking naked pictures of babies.  Think of how many pictures of naked babies this marketing department has.  Think of paedophiles.  Get as uncomfortable as you like.


I hate adverts more than I hate self-righteous athiests getting all “I know more than you about athiesm, so I’m better than you”, but naked baby adverts take the fucking rusk.  I hope everyone involed goes on fire.  Permenantly.  If I knew who you fucking paedo-panderers were, I’d lynch you.  You are absolute scum, and you’re making the world a worse place on a daily basis.  People who work in marketing should take note of how utterly meaningless their lives are.  Their time is spent working to encourage people to buy things they don’t need or want.  They are nothing more than paid liars who’s continuing use of the available air is an insult to the rest of us.  If you’re in the baby products marketing department, you’re all fucking paedophiles to boot.  All of you.  Why does that baby have to be naked?  Why does it have to be on all sides of the box?  You’ve made it so that there’s no way you can arrange the box without seeing a naked baby.  You all deserve to die of dysentary.

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The advert police

So there might be adverts on my blog thing now.  If you hate the adverts, get adblock plus for firefox.  If you hate adverts on Tv and live in the UK, get in touch with the ASA (advertising standards agency) and complain your little buns off.  They get less than 10000 complaints a year, and will outright ban an advert that gets too many complaints saying it’s offensive.  So get in touch with all your friends, and get moaning.  Maybe one day, there will be no such thing as adverts, and we’ll have to find something else to ignore, like celebrities.



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Why does God punish me?

So I’m all like, “Whoa, better check on this dead horse I was blogging three months ago” and there’s some comments on this athiesm thing I made that were all like “Hey buddy, that’s not athiesm!  You need to wise up!” so now I’m all like, “For God’s sake – can’ t these athiests just go to hell?”.

Get this into your head, athIEst.  You are not special, you are not the exception, you are not better than other words.  Why are you so hell-bent on changing things?  My mind (much like the messaiah) is made up, and there isn’t a logical argument in the entire spectrum of existance that could make me change it in your favour.  The best you can hope for is to change yours, and pretend it’s what you wanted all along, like the time you got a Barbie for christmas when you actually wanted a Ken.

What gave me a little chuckle was the fact that there are different kinds of athiesm (notice how the I comes before the E).  There’s “Implicit” athiesm, where you don’t directly say you’re an athiest, but allow people to assume it.  Then there’s “Explicit” athiesm, where you have to put a sticker on the front of your album so that 12 year olds can’t buy it.  After some careful research, and hours of googling, I have discovered that there is a new Audi that will park itself, and will come and pick you up when you push a little button on your iphone.  It’s like owning a James Bond car!  Back to the point, butt seriously; check it out!

The difference between these two kinds of athiesm (pretend the I is a woman, and the E is you – oh wait now I see why you spell it the other way.  You could be even more accurate and leave the I out entirely) is who fucking cares besides athiests?  Honest to God – I have never found anything I care less about.  I’d rather discuss the finer points of peeling a carrot.  Now, the last point that was thrown blindly in my direction with hands that are overly familiar with water-based lubricant is that just because an intelligent person holds a certain world view, doesn’t make that world view right.  Well, DUH!  As evil as he was, I’d say Hitler must have been reasonably intelligent to have gotten as far as he did, but you don’t see people using him as an example to win arguments, do you?  Suck that down with a hot steamy dose of diarrhea, and leave me alone.

Seriously, go away.

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See ya.

I’m off to work for a few months.  Toodles.

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Name that cretin

Frank Zappa (or Zapsy, as I call him) is better known for giving his children stupid names than his music and that is entirely his own fault.  Way to make a name for yourself, Zapsy.  Pun totally intended there.  In case you live in a cave, Zapsy called his children Moon-Unit, Ahmet Emuukah, Dweezil and Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen.  What these children did to him while in the womb is unknown, but apparently it was unacceptable behaviour warranting a lifetime of punishment.  Zapsy isn’t the only celebrity offender in the “Let’s all give our kids stupid names!” department, sharing the spotlight with cretins such as “The Edge” (what an absolute tool), the Beckhams (still idiots after all these years), Jermaine Jackson (dickhead) and that guy from My name is Earl (Your name is forgotten).  Their children suffer under the monikers of “Blue Angel”, “Cruz”, “Romeo”, “Brooklin”, “Jermajesty” and “Pilot Inspektor”.  Way to give them a head start in life. 


This particular trend of celebrity madness is starting to spill over into the real world, and it is really getting on my tits.  It pains me that some woman actually made the news in multiple countries for naming her child “hashtag”.  What a twatter.  What a self-important, unfunny, cretinous, arse-brained attention-whore.  That is the worst fucking name ever aside from Othello.  Pretentious Shakespearian names should just be avoided.  What child is going to thank you for calling them Titania?  So you want to appear incredibly middle class?  Is there a way to do so without naming your child something ridiculous?  Why are these people under the impression that they have to name their child something original?  Maybe they’re worried that “Dave” is a builders’ name and they don’t want their little boy to grow up working class (heaven forbid!).  But then most successful people have quite normal names, like Alan (Sugar), Bill (Murray), Angus (Deaton), John (take your pick, I choose Goodman), and David (Walliams).  Where does this “original names will make my child better” idea even come from?  Wacky names are likely to get your child ostricised (which should involve tarring and feathering, for the name’s sake) and will probably leave them depressed.  This will make them take heroin and become a prostitute.  There is no cure.


There is one example I know of that I can stand behind, and that is Shed Rodgers.  That name is so fucking badass.  Likely you will see Shed beating the living shit out of Othello in the playground.  I don’t even feel bad for Othello because his name is just too fucking stupid.  Kick his teeth in, Shed!

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