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