Friday, 30 August 2013

Vicariously Living through the Fat Fucks on the Telly

Fucken cunts asking about Rooney to Moys on the Sky Sports telly again, and where the hell this cat is going to end up in the future. Again. A-fuckengain, christ on a bike like, the guy gets all moody and shit, tears this turd a new one and I definitely would too. The same question for the past two months, again and again. Now, any cunt can see Rooney's the kind of cunt who, while in the footy and the position he's in right now, he hates where he is. He disnae want to be playing fucken long balls up to Van Funky, not a hope in hell ken, rather, he wants to be scoring those goals and getting all hot and dirty, where the real payoff is and the real glory is. There are lads, lassies nonchalantly sipping their fruity vodka drinky things and wes are talking about the Manchester Utd and Liverpool game coming up. Goddamn it but Wayne Rooney is a nutty bastard. You just knows, once he stops playing, he's going to be on the fish and chips and he's going to end up a real fat fuck, like Calcutta fat fuck, wes be talking here.

I dig sports ken, but in a weird sort of way. Personally, I care jack shit about the results, the playouts, the wins or the losses per sae, despite going to the fucken Euro championships all that time ago. I care about the algorithm, the click, the flow of the game, the endogenous variables, the pace, the speed. It's like a machine and yous don't know when it is going to stop. I wager one of the reasons sports is as popular as it is is because of the fact communal ties and social circles have been eroded for a plethora of reasons, (another post thinky topic ken) sports acts as sort of way that the lads can chill the fuck out with each other, a way that people can relate to each other and trade places, stories, and share the fear of the banker, the 15 percent unemployment rate, the new diaspora, the exit wound of a mortgage in arrears. The more shit changes, the more shit stays the same.

But I'm a weird fuck in a lot of ways. Sports appeals to me because there's a mechanical, mathematical element to it, there's statistics and Bayes rules to be drawn up around the whole thing. For other lads and lassies, well I dunno, most people aren't aspergery fucktards, theys actually be normal cunt and cuntesses, know what I'd be saying ken? A part of it always struck me as kind of sad in its own way, and I'll expand on dis nowt. See, yous are in a bar right, and the story is always the fucken same. Two fat fuckers with shitty cowlicks and footie shirts with fucken NAMES printed on de back (is there anything more emasculating than wearing a shirt with another bloke's name on it?), hair going out of their nostrils. The felicitous use of humor, so some shitty Family Guy about Stewie being a buttjockey joke then, ken. And these lads will go fucken back and forth roysh, gossiping like fucken women, on fucken Spurs and their setup and the hilarity (ok, it is hilarious) of Arsenal and the ever tentative big French bastard Arsie Wenger selling yet another great player to the opposition. Shitting bricks here ken. Which makes a cunt dive for his pint, nodding and glancing in the aseptic surroundings of a Dublin pub.

But is that how a man lives out his days? Knocking back ten bears in the company of pyknic lassies, gambrious tunage and gallivanting around to shitty pub one and two and three and four and talking outside to a Polish lad who claims that he was a drug mule and then, and then, ah lads, its happened to me before, happened to a lot of Irish people actually, but if yous talk to an Eastern European about socialism, about what their parents suffered, and that will destroy the idea, of shitheads like Krugman, just like that! The lassie I was with for a bit, her parents had loads of fun stories about queues for de lumpy bread and green looking butter once a month, if theys were lucky to get butter. But you fuckos are voting it in, so have at it! The place is fucked anyway. Go back to Triniteh and get high off the smell of your own shite. All my friends are fucken political scientists, sneh? Are they huh? Good for you ken! Trinity College is full of cunts. BESS lassies ken, BESS. BESS lassies are the easiest. Vaginas like concentration camps ken.

But I am going off of the point here. The svelte lassie with the hair like silk, the yeast rising to the sound of ticking clocks, the capacious midlands, freedom, uncut and pure, is lost because many a cunt is stuck sitting in front of dat fucken couch gossiping about Rooney's hair transplant, or living through the foot of the free kick of the header of the deflection, of the jovial singing as the scoreboard lights up. It's a bit depressing no? It's like Taleb said, it's all about skin in the game ken.  Football is a million times more fun to play than watch, so why don't yous play it? Most sports are as a matter of fact. I lift weights, I box and I couldn't tell yous a damn thing about the latter. Funny how some of the lads, the biggest sports fans are the biggest fat fucks going, and they laugh at a lad for doing it. God forbid these cunt do something with themselves. It's kind of the same thing with critics, especially ones of books. Sure it's great, to see eviscerated sacks of shite like Harold Bloom and Marxoid Terry Eagleton write long tirades on literature, but that's because they are cowards. They would never write their own novels, they sit back, they don't get their claws dirty because that is what academia is these days no? It is a coward's den.

You write that poem, you write that book, you write that movie script. Don't sit back like a little bitch and munch you very much. Get involved en aw!

Sports are important. There is an entertainment triumvirate to be seen here: videogames, pornography and 24 hour sports coverage. An understanding of all three is essential to understand what the fuck be going on in the next while ken, so this wasn't just a rant, but it be a messy gloopy soup that no cunt properly understands, and any cunt asking for seconds better be prepared properly to deal with the possibly, unforeseen and quite dangerous consequences. 

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