Friday, August 28, 2009
After battling for several months, Balloon Goes Bang's overworked team of in-house psychiatrists have finally managed to identify and document the full extent of our staff's mental health problems. It ain't pretty. Apparently we collectively suffer from a wide spectrum of disorders that together form a whole new classification of extreme negativity they're calling Cynical cuntism.
They've told us that we need to go lie down in a darkened room for a while, at least until we are well enough to type again. Apparently it isn't normal to get electric shocks from your keyboard because you're crying on it too much. They're also advising that we try to stop drinking so many beer and gin boilermakers - especially for breakfast - regardless of the drink's status as official Balloon Goes Bang "Cocktail of the Month" for August. And September.
Is this the end of the Bang, or merely a hiatus? Only time and agricultural-grade antidepressants know the answer to that. In the meantime, please send get-well cards, hate mail, and large cash contributions towards our spiralling medical bills to the usual address.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Look, over there. Yes, just over there at that different job. Isn't it pretty? Doesn't the grass around it look so much greener? Wouldn't you be so much happier and fulfilled and content if that's where you were right now?
Because no one who does that job ever feels bored or frustrated or annoyed or anything like the burning feelings of gnawing resentment and failure you're feeling in this job. If you did that job, you'd probably become so contented in your daily toil that you wouldn't ever want to take time off again, or even sleep. Not that you get any time off or a chance to sleep in this job either, but that's not the point. In that rainbow-soaked dream job you wouldn't even want to. That's how great that job is.
Sure, you'd still be working, you'd still be getting paid for your time, you'd still be working your fingers to bloody stumps, you'd still be selling little chunks of your soul every day for meager financial reward, but you'd be doing that job, and that's got to be better than this job. Right?
Friday, August 14, 2009
Yeah, I can see you standing there with your cheery clipboard and your happy upbeat face all ready to break out into some sort of hilarious and engaging repartee. I can see you desperately trying to formulate some way to stop me from completely ignoring you. I can see you pretending like I've not already decided to walk straight past you with a look on my face that says I just smelled shit on your shoes.
It's not that I dislike the cause you're attempting to raise money for. In fact, it doesn't matter one tiny bit to me which deserving bunch of trendy do-gooders you represent. You could be collecting for puppies starving in Africa, disabled whale children, or abused water pumps with Aids - I just don't care.
And it's not because you're some tiresome student tit who thinks that jumping in front of people and acting like a fist magnet is somehow endearing. (Although, let's be honest, your whole demented children's entertainer impersonation really isn't helping.)
It's not even because you actually expect some sort of response to whichever rhetorical question you're about to ask me. Do I care about deprived children? Do I think that rape is bad? Do I want the world to be a better place? Do I have just a few seconds to spare? Well of course I do. But that doesn't mean I'm going to slow my quickening footsteps to dignify your wretched entreaties with any kind of response.
Why? Well, because today I'm representing a charitable campaign of my own. Its mission? To prevent ordinary pedestrians from being made to feel like uncaring cunts for not handing over a bunch of cash to causes they've barely heard of when all they really want to do is buy themselves a sandwich for their lunch without having to justify their private moral choices to random clipboard-wielding irritants like you. Would you like to make a contribution?
Monday, August 10, 2009
How indeed? Joshtradamus outlines various cataclysmic possibilities in detail, but our favorite part is the fun Choose Your Own Apocalypse game. Using your skill and judgment, you pick the specific disasters you think will precipitate complete collapse. Unfortunately there's no explicit category for "idiocy," but our own choices of doom-mongering scenarios generated this scarily perceptive piece of psychoanalysis in reply:
"You are a bloodthirsty misanthrope. You believe mankind is stupid and fallible and that America will destroy itself in a bloody mess. You'll know you're right when: The United States succumbs to a torrent of Russian nukes; we clone ourselves, get bum genes, and die."
Yup, that sounds about right.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Great, it's you. What, wasn't breaking up once enough for you? Oh, of course. You're here because you've finally plucked up the courage to come take away half of our stuff. Sorry, yes, your stuff. You couldn't just let me get on with drinking too much and hating myself in peace, could you? No, you want to add a half-empty apartment to all the other happy reminders I have of our glorious time together.
Well that's just fine. You go right ahead. No problem. Take whatever you want. Don't you worry about me. Why don't you start with the books? I've already separated yours out from mine so they'll be easier for you to pack. You'll find them in a grey, soft heap in the fireplace.
You can take as many DVDs as you want too, because I watched them all last night. I know that's a lot of movies, but it turns out it's faster when you just watch them fly out of the living room window into the garden. Most of them are more entertaining that way too, especially after a bottle and a half of cheap gin.
Which reminds me, you might as well take that megalithic twatscreen TV you bought too, because the picture has gone all weird. No I didn't break it on purpose. It just toppled over the other night when I came home. OK, so I might have been a bit drunk and I might have bumped into it, but it was an accident. I was only trying to keep my distance from the sofa, which is completely covered in vomit. Oh yeah, I forgot: you can take that too if you want.
Your clothes? Yeah, I know they aren't in the closet. No I didn't chuck them out - I'd never do something like that. I donated them to the homeless center downtown. You might be able to buy them back if you hurry. And you don't mind a few piss and alcohol stains here and there.
What, you want the cat too? OK, that's going to far. You've got to be kidding me. I know he was your cat. But don't you remember that I'm the one who ended up looking after him all the time, feeding him, taking him to the stupid vet, getting up in the middle of the night to let him in, or let him out, or whatever the fuck he wanted to do? OK, whatever, I don't care. Don't worry about him being happier here living with me, or that he's old, or any of that, because yes, you're right, he's technically your cat. Go ahead and fucking take him. I just hope he rips your new house to shreds, shits in your bed, and bites that twat you've moved in with.
In fact, he'd better. It's taken me ages to train him.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
It's a pretty muddled-up messy place out there, what with all those troublesome, confusing problems floating around. Problems like war and famine and puppies and pestilence and people who disagree with you. And then there's your self-righteous sense of moral indignation just itching to make it all better. If only there was some pointless gesture you could indulge in to communicate your simplistic sense of right and wrong to everyone around you. Because you just know in your heart or your gut or wherever it is you do most of your thinking that everything would be so much better if only other people could see the world the way you do.
So here's an idea. When you come across a problem, don't waste valuable time doing anything meaningful about it. Don't take any kind of practical action, don't engage anyone in any constructive dialogue, and certainly don't think or apply any kind of objective reasoning to the situation. Do that, and the next thing you know your comfortingly uncomplicated world view may start to crumble or - worse - you might even begin to change your mind about something. Instead, just reduce whatever you want to say into some trite slogan, weak pun, or irritating mixture of the two, print this vapid collection of words onto a sticker, secure this label of ignorance to the back of your car, and wait for the world to magically become a better place for anyone who is you.
Just think: every single person who has the immense good fortune to drive behind you, even for a moment, will see that childishly simplistic chunk of pure opinion and instantly come round to your way of thinking. It will be like a very dim light bulb has been switched on in their minds. Your ill-conceived ideas about the world will float out among the people, spreading like a rogue fart, touching so many lives in ways you can't even begin to imagine.
Congratulations, world citizen: you've just done your civic duty. You must be proud.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Look at that face. Really, look at it. Take your time. Look at that half-inflated leather punchbag of a face and think about all the grief and abuse that's going to come out of it, fast-flowing floods of fuck-flavored humiliation, all of it directed at you.
OK, maybe not from that actual collapsing beach-ball face, but from the ones just like it that work in crappy kitchens the world over. Noisy, flapping faces belonging to angry, inadequate cooks who think you aren't a proper chef unless you shout and swear and belch as loud as you can.
Because even though you've probably fooled yourself into thinking you can handle ridiculously long hours working on your feet in sweatshop conditions, you may not have fully considered the fact that you're also going to have to suffer an endless deluge of piss and vitriol from every one of your superiors. They're going to yell at you for not boiling water the right way, for not peeling potatoes like they do in France, for not washing the dishes with clockwise sponge strokes. In fact, they're going to shriek and bawl and cry and stamp their little feet for whatever dumb reason they like, hour after endless hour, day after day, week after week, just because they can.
So ask yourself, is getting the chance to warm up fancy food for idiot diners really worth the risk of one day turning into a self-satisfied foul-mouthed cunt like Gordon Ramsay?
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Great news for socially isolated laptop tappers everywhere: now you can follow Balloon Goes Bang on Facebook. Just click here to add a little gratuitous negativity to your social networking circle jerk. As an added bonus, you'll get yet another pretend friend to add to your thin veneer of popularity.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Dear god, why? Never mind that you're going to have to put yourself through agony in training just to get the chance to torture yourself in races. Ignore the whole leg-shaving thing (which by the way has nothing to do with aerodynamics and everything to do with making it easier to pick chunks of dirty asphalt from your lacerated flesh after a crash). Skip past the fact that the biggest impact of your sweat-stained career will be to encourage yet more amateurs with flabby buttocks and beer bellies to wear spandex in public. Don't dwell for a moment on the minor problems of infertility or low life expectancy among your fellow riders. And forget all about the ridiculous tan lines you'll end up with.
Instead, focus your attention on the one thing that makes your sport possible in the first place: drugs. Despite the best efforts of the cycling world to pretend otherwise, no sane person honestly believes that anyone - even you - can ride up and down enormous mountains at speeds most of us would struggle to achieve on the flat without serious chemical sustenance, never mind keep doing it for three weeks straight. Drugs are an indelible part of cycling, just like showing off in the NBA, bad dress sense in golf, or overpaid prima donnas in football.
So the question is why go to all the trouble of popping enough pills to kill a horse just to get to the top of the mountain a few minutes quicker, when it would be much easier and more fun to get loaded and drive there instead?
Friday, July 3, 2009
Sorry, no, our mistake. You don't want an iPhone. You need one, right?
Because you need to be able to connect to the internet every single minute of every single day. Because you need to post twatface updates about every half-formed fart of a thought that pops into your tiny mind. Because you need a clever gadget to tell you complicated stuff like where you are and what direction you're facing. Because you need to carry around a shiny little toy that proclaims "I am an easily distracted, self-obsessed cunt bubble" so you don't have to stop reading your emails or playing stupid games long enough to shout the words yourself. And, most of all, because you really need to give those kids who hang around at the end of your street one more reason to commit violent crime.
Sent from my iPhone
Friday, June 26, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Is being a sanctimonious, self-satisfied, yogurt-knitted moaner on your own not good enough for you? Do you feel the need to spout your pious, wholemeal moralizing as part of a group? Do you want to prove to the world that the misguided dietary preferences of a bunch of over-privileged whiners can be even more annoying than we all thought possible?
Of course you do.
We know, we know. Because animals are great, blah blah, cows have such soulful eyes, chickens are mistreated, lambs are cute, pigs are clever, fish are ... you know ... sort of good, foie gras is so beastly and tasty and so on and so forth and so boring. Done, snooze, skip to the end.
Because here's something you might not have taken into account: PETA sucks. Really. Think about it. For all those years of indignant, shrill, irritating, self-righteous, disproportionate, poorly targeted, hysterical nagging and whining ... what has the organization actually achieved? Answer: Not a lot. In fact, the only thing it manages to do on a consistent basis is annoy reasonable people who might otherwise have had some small morsel of sympathy for your ill-judged point of view.
So please realize that, no matter what you might think about fur, there are better ways of getting your point across. And trust us when we say that flashing your skinny vegan grumble bumps around town is only going to advertise the value of eating red meat to anyone who sees you.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
And try not to think about the paparazzi pack ready to follow your every move for the rest of your life, including - but not restricted to - your bad acne, tears, fashion mistakes, cellulite, angry outbursts, solitude, embarrassing situations, fear, nipple flashes, frustration, and horrific accidents involving fast cars and concrete pillars in Paris.
It will be just like living in a fairytale, won't it?
Friday, June 5, 2009
Just like in those ads.
You know, the ones on TV for big trucks made by hard-assed truck makers like Dodge and Ford and Chevy. The ones showing manly men doing manly things, looking buff, and wearing tight T-shirts. The ones that don't have a single woman in them, anywhere, ever. Yeah! That's the stuff. Real men. Manly men. Together.
Because we think it's wonderful that you've finally come to terms with what you've always suspected deep down in your manly crotch: Real men like you love real men like them. Congratulations, we're proud of you, you big tough hunk of man you.
Friday, May 29, 2009
No one wants to hear whatever random assortment of noises your stomach makes whenever you open your mouth to yawn. No one is interested in your LOL links to puerile crap only ADD 12-year-olds should find funny. And no one is captivated by your inane commentary on your unbelievably vapid life.
In short, no one cares, including you whenever you finally get bored of this pointless vanity exercise and quietly abandon it.
And don't ever fool yourself into thinking you can make any money out of your half-baked notions and self-serving stupidity. Sure, your fatuous witterings have a potential readership of millions, but back here in reality land that same yelling crazy man will make more money every single day from shaking an empty coffee cup in the face of random, scared strangers than you ever will from Google Ads.
Hey, why not post something about that? Blah blah blah, blog, repeat, etc.
Friday, May 22, 2009
1. Write a book.
Sure, we all have a book in us, but have you gotten round to the tiresome task of turning that jumble of ill-conceived thoughts in your head into a long line of little squiggly word-shaped things on paper? Thought not. But let's assume you'll soon have the necessary time, discipline, and self-serving vanity to turn your mediocre mess of ideas into middling prose, and skip to the next step.
2. Write a book that isn't shit.
Sure, we all have a book in us, but most of them are incoherent, clichéd, boring, predictable, nonsensical, pointless, crappy excuses for books. But let's assume that one day you'll get round to forming enough understandable sentences that together constitute a story that is somehow, magically better than average, and skip to step three.
3. Get an agent
There are a lot of other people out there who, like you, are determined to inflict their pitiable prose on otherwise blameless printing presses. This means that most publishers won't even glance at your smudged, stained carnival of tedium on its unopened, envelope-clad way into the trash unless you first convince an agent to represent you (and for "represent" read "add a post-it to your manuscript with 'Hey [insert name], this kid's plopped out something great' scrawled on it"). But let's assume that you'll find an agent dumb enough to take you on but also, strangely, clever enough to remember to get up in the morning, and skip to step four.
4. Find a publisher.
Even at this stage, it's still far from guaranteed that your second-rate agent will convince some third-rate publishing house to transform your fourth-rate writing into a fifth-rate book. But let's assume that your deluded agent somehow blackmails some desperate, senile publisher into accepting your spit-soaked excuse for a manuscript and turning it into a book-shaped shitpile of bound pages (or that you've circumvented this whole tedious process via the literary equivalent of public masturbation: self-publishing), and skip to step five.
5. Be a millionaire bestseller.
Congratulations! You're a published author. The bad news? Fame and fortune won't be joining us at your celebration party. Why? Well, every year there are around 50,000 other fiction titles published in the US alone. And that's not counting the 200,000 or so non-fiction titles. Or books published in other countries. Or books published last year, or the year before that. Or even the ones written ages ago by obscure authors with weird names like Twain, Tolstoy, and Twat-Face Austen.
And guess what that means? It means that even if you write your sad little story, even if it is - against all odds - any good, even if you dupe an agent and a publisher into not just reading it but actually liking it enough to turn it into a book, and even if that book achieves the improbable accomplishment of making its sorry way into actual bookstores, chances are virtually no one will either buy it or read it. Which, as outcomes go, is not that different from not bothering to write the feeble thing in the first place.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Of course you do. Because, for some bizarre reason when faced with odds of 18 million to one, you focus all your attention on that itty bitty one, and completely ignore the big, complicated side of the equation that will occur around 17,999,999 times more frequently.
Why? Because you're a moron.
So instead of trying to explain the finer points of crushing inevitability and statistical certainties to you, we're going to focus instead on the real reason people continue to witlessly donate their money to lottery companies: What if?
What if it was you? What if you really did have a chance of winning the big prize? What if you managed to pull off the impossible and actually got your greasy, grasping, greedy little fingers on that enormous, mega-millions bonus powerball jackpot? Happiness is just a huge windfall of cash away, right? An eight-figure bank balance is your route to joy and contentment. Blissful fulfillment awaits you in deluxe rich-dick nirvana.
Except almost all lottery winners are so stupid that they continue to play their numbers after they win. That's right, they continue to do the thing they think will make them happy, after it has supposedly made them happy. Around 98 percent of them according to one survey – not that such a big, complicated number will likely mean much to you, not when there's that little two percent left for you to focus on. Go on, look at it. Two percent. That could be you.
Friday, May 8, 2009
It's never gonna happen. Seriously. I mean, are you completely retarded?
First up, the bad news: There are about three million dumb students out there who have the same idea, so you'd better be prepared for a little competition.
Second, the worse news: Newspapers are dying. Haven't you heard? No, of course not. And you want to be a fucking reporter.
My advice? Give up. Now.
But you won't, because you have a dream la-dee-fucking-da.
So here's all you have to do: Sneak into a newspaper office, and start journalizing. It's easy. Anyone can do it, and there are plenty of free desks. You can wear a Trilby hat, and stick a post-it marked "press" to it if you really want. Or you can even sit around in a clown suit and surf for kiddie porn. The few paid staff still there will be too demoralized to even notice.
Of course, you won't actually get paid. Not ever. Welcome to your new life as a journalist.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Are you too cocky, arrogant, and shit-eating full of yourself to be an air force fighter pilot? Are you more into your own ass than Tom Cruise looking at himself in a gold-plated mirror? Do you have an impossibly square jaw, rock-hard gonads, and a science-based PhD? Then NASA is waiting for your call.
If you are chosen, if you are found to have the right stuff, a specially trained team of spaceman fluffers will massage your swollen ego, spin you round till you hurl, massage your inflamed ego some more, prep you to do lots of pointless experiments in zero-gravity, stroke your red, angry ego one last time, and then strap you to the top of a big tube filled to the brim with highly combustible liquids and gas.
Then they'll light the blue touch paper and retreat a safe distance, just in case something goes pop prematurely or your head swells to the point where it endangers physics.
And the one thing they won't do? Admit that a machine could do every space thing you can do, but do it better, do it cheaper, and do it without being such an insufferable, self-satisfied dickflap.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Not sure which category you fall into? Then take our easy quiz to find out.
When using your camera, do you:
a) Take anything from 10 to 50 shots of the same subject, 90 percent of which are excellent and a few of which are stunning quality (and you can tell which is which); or
b) Occasionally take the odd half-decent photo of something random, largely by accident.
If you answered mostly A then Congratulations! You're a photographer.
If you answered mostly B then, well, you know the rest ...
Monday, April 13, 2009
Why? They're all cretins.
Smug, vacuous, loudmouth, overambitious, inane, preening, self-important, grasping, vapid, oily cretins.
Is that you?
Friday, April 10, 2009
Just be careful not step on any of the dead bodies on your way to becoming one of them.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Unless your name is "JK Rowling", in which case you can fuck off and - when you get there - fuck off again.
And take that speccy twig-carrying twat with you.