Seven Things We Can’t Be Fucked About This Week — Bollocks Edition

 “Not caring about things since bollocks bollocks bollocks bollocks.”

 

indifferent

 

7. Robot Dogs — If I’d had a robot dog as a lad, I reckon I wouldn’t have gotten into so much trouble later in life. One of the best ways to inculcate responsibility is to task a child with the care of a robot dog: to make sure that its moving parts are properly lubricated, that its infrared vision is calibrated, that it’s loaded with hundreds of rounds of armor-piercing bullets, that it’s thoroughly fueled—so that it can track down enemies of the state and incinerate them with its built-in flamethrowers.

spotSM

So cute.

6. Flying to Mars to Die — In the depressed seventies the best you could hope for was to die in space. Possibly in a laser battle with flying robots or lizard men. Not to sit on your ass in a space-trailer, bored, with fuck all to do, on Mars for fuck’s sake, where there’s only one temperate day a year, and even then you have to wear an oxygen mask and bundle up like the Michelin Man just to venture outdoors. Better to crash your rocket ship into a distant blue dwarf and extinguish a solar system full of prawn-headed aliens in tinfoil coveralls than suffer that.

5. Prepubescent Jihadists run off to Marry Isis Insurgents — He’s troubled, but you understand him. He’s passionate, but society never gives him a break. It’s all about rules to them: don’t do this, don’t do that. But they don’t know him like you do. He decapitates people and sets them on fire, but he’s got his tender side. Plus he’s exciting and menacing in his black hoodie and crisscrossed bandoliers waving his black flag scrawled in medieval Arabic script like a sexy but unpredictable speedfreak headbanger from the New Wave of British Heavy Metal. You ride shotgun in his chopped-up American-issue Humvee, getting into hassles with infidels at burger joints, drag-racing across the dunes with rival jihadis, instigating switchblade rumbles in and out of the long shadows of minarets. But when prom night comes along you wait alone by the phone, and when you lower your veil to dry your tears your father and brothers stone you to death for being a whore.

teenage jihadi

So dreamy.

3. Charles Manson’s Corpse — Charles Manson’s girlfriend only wanted to marry him so she could charge admission to an exhibition of his corpse. No worse a fate than Tutankhamen or Vladimir Lenin, one might argue. But Manson’s will clearly states that his head is to be frozen in liquid nitrogen and then thawed out in the future so that he can lead a machete-wielding-love-cult-army of defrosted heads into the desert on a fleet of dune buggies—after the black-white-severed-head-race-war has wiped out the food courts and baseball diamonds of Middle America—and establish a New Eden just over the chain-link fence from Paramount Studios.

4. Girl Scout Cookies — When little girls come to my house with boxes of cookies, I tend to hide behind the door.

2. Kim Jong-un’s Flattop — They said the same thing when the Teddy Boys pomaded their pompadours, when the hippies teased their Afros, when the punks gelled their hair up into spikes: stop starving your people.

unly you

So hungry.

1. Prosthetic Penises — I appreciate a well-crafted prosthetic penis. Packer Prosthetic Penises are some of the finest on the market, featuring lifelike surface detailing and a realistic sponginess. But although they are artfully manufactured, the existence of two different types—flaccid and erect, instead of a single multiuse penis prosthetic—makes it extremely difficult for one to feign spontaneous arousal. If, for example, I expected to perform penetrative sex with a prosthetic penis, I would naturally leave home sporting the erect one (and hope the bulge was not too noticeable,) but if I expected the evening to progress in a more or less platonic fashion, I would opt for the flaccid prosthetic. All well and good. But what if I anticipated spontaneity? I would be obliged to wear one and bring the other along. How then would I explain the erect prosthetic penis on the dining table? You cannot coat-check these items. “I have no expectations darling, I have merely brought along my erect prosthetic penis in case of unanticipated contingency.”

About Old Sid Vicious

After successfully faking his death in 1979, Sid Vicious went into hiding in New York City. Unsuccessful in his efforts to discover the real killer of his girlfriend Nancy, he made his way to Los Angeles, where he kicked junk with the help of The Church of Synanon. He used his royalties from The Great Rock and Roll Swindle to purchase an estate in Honduras, where he erected several greenhouses. His subsequent propagation experiments involving the hybridization of rare orchids (he developed several hybrid species, including Cyrtopodium ritcheii and Spiranthes simon) have revolutionized horticulture. Those close to him report that he is dismissive of his stint as the Sex Pistols bassist, referring to it as, “that twilit era of my life when hubris very nearly got the better of me.” In the late nineties, he returned to Britain and took up residence in his childhood village of Tunbridge Wells, where he resides to this day. He is an amateur fishkeeper, specializing in marine aquaria, and an enthusiastic birder, having established an endowment for the preservation of the black-crowned night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax,) the doleful cry of which he is rumored to be an excellent mimic.
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