b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Hypocrisy » Popular | Search
This is a question Hypocrisy

Overheard the other day: "I've told you before - stop swearing in front of the kids, for fuck's sake." Your tales of double standards please.

(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 12:21)
Pages: Latest, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Dare I say…

Asking for QotW suggestions, then ignoring them all and putting your own forward?
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 13:22, 16 replies)
Fat fucking barman!
While out one night in Guildford, I was most definitely refreshed. Refreshed as a newt some might say!

I sway my way to the bar and ask the rather portly barman for another pint of his finest cider and if that is unavailable then Strongbow will do!

He looks at me and says in his sternest voice

"I'm sorry sir but I think you've had enough already!"

I am refused service, I accept this and leave the bar, go home and sleep content that I have had a good night and no harm came to anyone in my vicinity!

Not two weeks later the roles are reversed!

He goes absolutely mental, threatening me, screaming at my manager that he wants me sacked!

But in his defence I do work in Burger King!
(, Sun 22 Feb 2009, 0:40, 5 replies)
The Bike
There was a girl at my school who provided a very, very important service. She should have been given a medal, or at least an honourable mention in the Queens speech.

This girl would allow just about anyone to have a pop at her innards after a couple of pints of snakebite, bless her.

Back in my teenage days if I went to a party and this girl was there, I’d always know that some spotty pubescent prick would approach me after an hour or so and shove their middle finger under my nose, accompanied by a drunken:

“Sniff that, Spanky, that’s what a real woman smells like."

One time a lad at school ambled out of the toilets spinning a used condom like a weird rubber blackjack. It was full of cum on the inside and lady juice on the outside. He spun it in such a way that everyone in the room was splattered in a fine spray of the bike’s sacred secretions. Some people went “Eeeewwwweeee!!!”, but I actually secretly enjoyed it. It was fucking sexy. But I wanted so much more than to be showered in second hand fanny batter.

I went up to the fella with the used condom and said: “Fuck it, I’m gonna go for it – where’s the snakebite, I’ll go and offer her a refill... in more ways than one.”

To which the fella’s eyes widened with horror: “That is fucking disgusting, Spanky. You really are a dirty little fucker , aren’t you?”

And he ambled off, draping the used condom over his shoulder like a trophy, a badge of honour.

Unfortunately before I could get into the toilets to have a crack at the bike, some other fella sneaked in before me. I could see he was holding a bottle of cider in one hand and lager in the other.

Bollocks. Missed my chance.

He came out a few minutes later, tucking his shirt into his trousers, and the bike followed looking rather tired and sweaty and definitely not up for anymore humping.

But it was a long summer that year, and opportunity would knock again. I had to make do that night with wanking into a sock and rubbing the lady juice that had splattered my face onto my fingers and into my mouth.

A few days later on the bus into school I told my best mate Greg about my plan to ride the bike.

He just said: “That's fucking sick,” and continued looking out the window.

“But you’ve had a go on her, haven’t you, Greg...”

“Well, that’s different...”

And I just sort of whispered. “Hypocrite... Just like everyone else...”

To which Greg sighed and said, “No, Spanky – I just think that there’s something seriously wrong with you. I mean, she’s your sister, you sick cunt.”
(, Mon 23 Feb 2009, 10:30, 14 replies)
Bastard know-it-all NIMBY green activists.
Do you know who really curdles my milk with hypocrisy? Bastard think-they-know-it-all green activists.

Me: Our country is dependent on coal, gas, and a small amount of nuclear power. Coal and gas are dirty! The activists cry. True. Let’s diversify and try to sort out some more nuclear reactors.

Activist: No! We can’t have more nuclear reactors! Nuklear=eevil.

m: Right, let’s try and build a tidal barrage on the river Severn. It will be able to generate up to 5% of the UK’s power needs.

a: No! There is an obscure animal that needs to live there.

m: Ok. Solar power can’t generate what we need. Wind power?

a: Yes! We like wind power!

me: Ok, can we place the turbines near your house?

a: Oh no! You can’t do that!

m: Moving on. Cheap flights?

a: Nooo! Evil. Carbon things and rubbish. Eveil!

m: Even though flights only generate 3% of UK carbon emissions?

a: EEVIL! Carbon momoxide is eviels.

m: Right, lets stop all UK internal flights and build a high speed maglev train that will link up the UK and it will only take 3 and a half hours to go from Edinburgh to London?

a: No, there is a newt that lives in a swamp near the M1 and it would be MURDERDED by new railways.

And my all time favourite.

“I am just browsing the ‘net on my iphone to check out the latest ‘Destroy all 3G masts’ site. Those 3G masts are all eveil you know, my Jeremy got headcrabs because we lived less than 35 mile away from them.”
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 15:45, 11 replies)
I have a bit of a confession to make...

Like many of you delicious folk, I am a full on, hip-thrusting internet thief. I have downloaded thousands of DVDs, games, and albums*.

More importantly, I don’t think I own a single legitimate piece of software. ‘Knock off Nigel’ should actually be renamed ‘Professional Pirate Pooflake’

Yet every weekday morning I get up, watch a bit of (stolen) cable TV then drive to my job.

As an IT Licence Manager for a multi-national company…where I spend all day** hunting down fake installs and lecturing people on the perils of piracy, its effect on business and impact to the humble consumer.

Sometimes I don’t know how I sleep at night.***

*Obviously porn too, it goes without saying :)

**Total lie – I’m lucky if I put in an hour a week.

***I do know really…Alcohol. Mmm.

(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 13:04, 11 replies)
Who can't take a punch.
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 16:49, Reply)
Pause for thought...
Disclaimer: Not my own work.

Hypocrisy is a favorite accusation in our society, the charge tossed about with carefree abandon by Left, Right, and the nonpolitical.

No one has ever died at the hands of hypocrisy, yet it's a deadly accusation, widely treated as among the greatest of evils. A mere accusation of hypocrisy can halt a debate by silencing the accused, forcing him off-topic to defend himself against the tangential charge of hypocrisy.

This is how and why so many talking-head shows quickly degenerate into everyone accusing everyone else of hypocrisy, with nothing of substance actually discussed.

Most everyone agrees that a speaker's moral character is irrelevant to the validity of his argument, and yet in contravention to this rule of Logic, most everyone also regards hypocrites as unworthy advocates.

The Congressman who has an affair is deemed unfit to advocate "family values," regardless of his legislation's merits. The celebrity who builds on her country estate is deemed unfit to promote environmental conservation. The parent who smokes is deemed unfit to counsel against drugs. All may (or may not) have good ideas, but presumably, we should not listen to them and decide on the merits, because they are "hypocrites."

Yet the accusers are often guilty of worse than hypocrisy: dishonesty, disingenuousness, and intellectual laziness.

Intellectual laziness, because charging hypocrisy allows the accuser to avoid the difficulty of defending an argument. It is intellectually easier to accuse an opponent of hypocrisy, and leave it at that.

Disingenuousness, because often their hidden motive is to avoid the risk of challenging a popular position. It is politically safer to accuse an opponent of hypocrisy, and leave it at that.

And also dishonesty, because the charge of hypocrisy is rarely accurate. It has been bandied about so recklessly -- on talk radio and daytime TV, in high schools and colleges, among pundits and activists -- that "hypocrite" has come to mean: "I don't like you. You're bad. And I don't want to have to defend that position."

What is hypocrisy?

Rather than look to a dictionary, I've applied a Socratic method, considering the word's usage and implications in varied situations, and I've concluded that "hypocrisy" comprises Four Elements, all necessary for a person to be guilty as charged.

A hypocrite is someone who: (1) advocates a standard, (2) publicly applies that standard to himself, (3) fails to meet that standard, and (4) hides or denies his failure.

All Four Elements are required, yet hypocrisy is often confused with Element # 3 alone: Failing to meet one's own standards. The Christian minister who cheats on his wife. The rich liberal who opposes school vouchers but enrolls his children in private school.

Failing to meet one's own standards is not hypocrisy.

If an obese woman advocates dieting, but laments the difficulty of sticking to one, is she a hypocrite? Of course not. She has failed to meet her standards, to follow her own advice. But she is not a hypocrite because Element # 4 is missing. She never claimed to stick to her diet.

Thus, a Christian minister who routinely confesses to being a sinner (as many Christians do), or a rich liberal who laments that public schools are just not good enough for his children, would not be hypocrites. They advocate certain standards, yet admit to falling short.

Falling short of a standard should be no bar to advocating a high standard, so long as one is open about his own shortcomings. Were it otherwise, smokers would be deemed unfit to warn children against tobacco, lest they be "hypocrites." Yet a man who fails to meet his own standards, rather than being a hypocrite, is often the best advocate of a different course of action.

Sometimes the best advice is: "Do as I say, not as I do."

(Accurate definitions aside, one practical problem of defining hypocrisy as failing to meet one's own standards is that it discourages high standards. Under this false definition, a man who merely meets 80% of his high standards is judged worse than a man of no standards. "At least he's not a hypocrite!" Yes, at the very least.)

Hypocrisy is also confused with double standards. Yet once again:

Double standards are not hypocrisy.

Dad goes to bed later than the bedtime he sets for his child. Does this double standard make dad a hypocrite? Of course not -- because Element #2 is missing. Dad never applied his child's bedtime to himself. Indeed, he would freely admit to anyone who asks that his child's bedtime does not apply to him.

A mere double standard is not hypocrisy.

A movie star advocates a ban on gun ownership, but then obtains a carry permit. Is she a hypocrite? Yes, if she suggested that all should be banned from owning a gun. But if she publicly claims that celebrities are entitled to a gun privilege denied to others, then no. She'd be arrogant and elitist, but not a hypocrite.

The validity of a double standard is irrelevant to the issue of hypocrisy. A double standard may be just and rational, or unjust and irrational. Hypocrisy flows from the attempt to hide or deny a double standard, not from the merits of a double standard.

A young black militant charges an older black conservative with hypocrisy for attacking affirmative action, yet benefiting from it when he was young. Is the black conservative a hypocrite? Not if he says affirmative action was appropriate thirty years ago, but no longer. (This is merely a double standard.) Nor if he admitted benefiting from affirmative action, but claims he was wrong to do so. (This is merely failing to meet one's own standards.)

Likewise, a black militant who admits to a double standard in assessing white and black racism (because "whites have power") is not a hypocrite. He may (or may not) be wrong, elitist, or arrogant. But his open admission of a double standard absolves him of hypocrisy.

And finally, what really is so awful about hypocrisy?

Recall the adage: hypocrisy is the compliment that vice pays to virtue. It most offends adolescents, adolescent mindsets, and those who live comfortably untouched by serious evils.

Hypocrisy is not nice. But it is not genocide, murder, or rape. Nor even turnstile jumping. On a scale of evils, it's a petty offense. Most everyone commits hypocrisy at one time or another, just as most everyone speeds on a highway. Speeding endangers more lives, yet hypocrisy upsets more people. Go figure.

If more people understood hypocrisy's Four Elements, they'd spot the many false charges. Then pundits and activists would stop hurling baseless accusations. We'd dampen 90% of the noise on radio and TV shoutfests. And then perhaps we can have more substantive discussions in the news media.

annnnd breathe.
(, Fri 20 Feb 2009, 13:12, 5 replies)
PFL (Txt spk for ‘Pointless-F*cking-LOLs’)…

There’s a chap I work with called Martin, who is the most chronically, death defyingly dull human being I have ever met. Words cannot express how much this moaning, miserable mongoloid morbidly mopes his way through every working day with the fixed, pained expression of a man who has just been forced at gunpoint to felch the sloppy schlong syrup from the clap-ridden chutney cupboard of a syphilitic three-legged goat.

Sporting the amiable charm and good looks of a sweaty, seventies serial sex-offender, Martin winces and grumbles as he hobbles along, and with every step he resembles a man who is permanently having the larger of his haemorrhoids violently rubbed with sandpaper before having his hog’s eye prodded with a red hot knitting needle dipped in sulphuric acid.

When this pitiful spaff-splat actually ‘speaks’, it is a monotone, excruciating experience that ends with people weeping tears of despair…swiftly followed by a mad surge for the exits like a Chinese fire drill.

You get the idea.

Yet somewhere, in every communication that this putrid lump of pure despondency sends through the medium of email (or even worse, text) he will include the acronym ‘LOL’!

The thing is…It doesn’t even follow a joke, or even an attempt at humour!

For example, Here’s a direct quote of his, copied from my inbox:

“It is the same Sharon, she is changing roles, and she will be getting a laptop as she will be field based LOL“

What the jellified fuck? I ask you. I’ve never seen the guy so much as crack a smile, let alone an actual laugh…out-loud or otherwise.

Why do some people do this? Why do they feel the need to inform us that they’re laughing when they’re not?...and sometimes when it’s not even relevant in the first place?

What’s next?...

“I’m afraid it’s herpes. LOL”

“I was brutally arse-raped last night. LOL”

“Goodbye, cruel world. LOL”

LOLs are not full stops, required at the end of every message. Pointless, unwarranted LOL’s are like a virus…infecting the planet with the sole purpose of dumbing it down, closely followed by the rapidly-devaluing ‘Genuine LOL’ that people are now writing.

If every LOL was genuine, we wouldn’t be able to hear ourselves think over the noise...everybody’s work environment would be like a non-stop comedy gig, and you wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without tripping over hordes of cretins ‘ROFL’ing all about the place.

Some people need to get a fucking grip. Grrrr

Ooooh, get me! – Haven’t I woken up with my 'rant' head on today?

(, Wed 25 Feb 2009, 11:15, 24 replies)
I dont use racist language because racism is a crime and crime is for black people.
(, Sun 22 Feb 2009, 3:13, 4 replies)
Getting from A to B...
If I am a pedestrian, then cars, busses and bikes make me angry.
If I am on a bike, then cars, busses and pedestrians make me angry.
If I am in a car, then pedestrians,busses and bikes make me angry.
If I am on a bus, then cars, pedestrians and bikes make me angry.

I can't travel anywhere without being an utter hypocrite
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 13:22, 8 replies)
The Fun Police
I remember going to Coombe Abbey (essentially a fucking HUGE park) in Coventry with my mum and dad. It was a sunny day, my dad bought me an ice cream, I was happy as a pig in shit.

We walked past this big stately house they have there and I saw them.

- I very nearly pissed myself -

The biggest, baddest, meanest looking slides I've ever seen in my life. These things were MASSIVE. They made all the kids running round them look like ants at the alter of some mighty heathen god, a slide-shaped alter to the heathen god of fun.

"Dad," I said. "Can I have a go!?!"

"If you must, Spanky," replied my dad. I handed the old man my ice cream and I was off, batting the spawn of other watching parents out the way in my eagerness to have a go on the slides.

I'd had a few goes and was loving it, the feel of the sun on my face, the wind rushing through my hair as I pelted down the slide, running back up the steep steps to have another go.

Then, the hypocrite cunt butted in. He was a park keeper.


I was at the top waiting for my turn, I looked round, wondering if he was pointing at one of the others waiting to have a go. But no, he was definately pointing at me.

I took the slide down - weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! - and the park keeper was waiting for me at the bottom.

"You're not allowed on there," he said.

"But... You're here to help the public enjoy their time at the park!" I stammered. "Why's everyone else allowed on and I'm not?"

We had to step to one side to continue our conversation as the place was thick with speeding, giggling children going mental in this palace of fun.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see my mum and dad approach, concerned.

"You're not allowed on there, son," repeated the park keeper.

"Why?" I asked.

He narrowed his eyes and responded with a question of his own.

"How old are you?" he said.

"Thirty-three," I replied.

Oh, my mum and dad were so proud.
(, Tue 24 Feb 2009, 15:59, 11 replies)
Another driving one
Ok, I'm actually ashamed of this one as I nearly killed myself and 2 other people doing this.

Hypocrisy? Well, you'll see. The short version is this:

I was driving home and came to a village (name witheld) which had a 40mph limit. Unfortunately, I was doing about 70 at the 40 limit sign. The roundabout was just after the sign and there was no way I was going to stop. Ever.

So I didn't and flew across the mini (ish) roundabout at about 65.

Right across the front of the car to my right which I damned nearly hit.

My reason for not stopping? I was on the phone.

Who to?

The guy who I nearly hit.... We were just telling each other we really shouldn't be on the phone while driving - shortly before a scream from him and his OH as "some crazy bastard has just driven over the roundabout at breakneck speed nearly killing us all.... Hang on JTW - was that you???"

This was about 6 years ago - he still reminds me and everyone else of this ....

The moral - don't talk and drive :)
(, Mon 23 Feb 2009, 17:12, 7 replies)
Vera Lynn.
Pretends to be all into animal rights, when her whole lifestyle is based on royalties from a song about whale meat.
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 15:53, 7 replies)
Hypocrisy? or just plain idiocy....

In my late teens, I had one of those mates that everybody encounters at least once during their life...One of those ‘laddish’ types who was not exactly the brightest, but would insist on calling anybody who ever displayed an example of behaviour that was not choc-full-to-the-brim with bulging masculinity a ‘Queer’, or some other derogatory, lover-of teh-cock comparative.

The bloke in my case was called Gaz.


Gaz: “Wanna nuvver beer?”
Me: “No thanks, I’ve got to get home”
Gaz: “QUEER!”
Me: “Hmm”


Gaz: “Did you watch the match last night?”
Me: “Nah, I missed it. I was out with my girlfriend”
Me: “Wha? Oh, forget it.”

And so on and so nauseatingly on…

Despite Gaz’s throbbingly overcompensating lifestyle he managed to pull an excrutiatingly stunning girlfriend called Sophie. I always had a hard soft spot for her, she was gorgeous, intelligent and fun, if a little timid. Gaz, however ruled over her like a caveman dragging a carcass into a cave.

On one particular occasion my then g/f and I were out with Gaz and Sophie. We were walking back home from the chip shop after the pub and were talking about something or other when I made the disastrous mistake of commenting in a slightly sensitive manner on the topic of conversation.

“You’re so GAY!!!” Gaz gleefully exclaimed in a brutal attempt to raise awareness of my obvious apparent homosexuality and the heinous crime to humanity that it clearly was to him.

(This was also despite the rather overwhelming evidence of a girlfriend by my side, and a previous history of girlfriends).

Gaz was undeterred. “POOFTER!” He yelped, pointing at me like a one-man hate crime.

“Oh, fuck off, you’re a homophobic” I retorted.

Quick as a flash, Gaz then replied: “No way am I homophobic…I LOVE giving it up the arse!”

My jaw dropped and I gasped with in wide-eyed astonishment. Then, still struggling to comprehend his logic I glanced over to poor Sophie, who simply nodded her head glumly and whispered: “he does…” as her cheeks began to glow darkest crimson.

Still shocked by his answer, I could then only ridiculously reply: “erm……well…..that doesn’t prove anything…that just makes you a hypocrite.”

“Ah-HA!...No it doesn’t!” replied Gaz instantly, giving a confident, beaming grin before continuing: “Because I also like Sophie to shove stuff UP my arse too! (here he turns to Sophie) Don't I, darlin'?”

At this point lovely Sophie could stand no more and she quietly elbowed him in the ribs whilst whispering to him: “pleeeease shut the fuck up...

As for me, I just couldn't bring myself to eat my battered sausage after that. But on the plus side, Sophie's admission did make a big impact with helping my then girlfriend dabble towards venturing into the dark arts of chutney cupboard exploration…

So in a roundabout way, I’ve got Gaz to thank for that ;)
(, Mon 23 Feb 2009, 16:00, 2 replies)
Pro Life.
It always makes me laugh to see Pro-lifers bunging eggs at abortion clinics.
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 13:47, 5 replies)
From ‘Spoilt Brats’ to ‘Boys ‘n’ the hood’…

During my university time I will never forget the condescending hypocrisy of my three ‘well-to-do’ public schoolboy chums who decided to ‘get-down-with-the-kids’ and adopt ‘gangsta rapper’ personas.


These three twat-blisters, each to the Manor born with a silver spoon, decided to slum-down in an exercise to ‘fit in’ with their lower class chavvy student mates and they did it in as patronisingly inaccurate a way as is humanly possible.

First up was Reece Everitt, snooty little plum job with a 'la-de-da' attitude and a father who owned half of Guernsey. He started wearing Ali-G tracksuits and ‘bling’...

Next was Quentin Bullock-Smythe, captain of the rugby team. A huge, strapping inbred mutant previously known as ‘The Bull’. He subsequently insisted that his father traded in his sporty Alpha Romeo for a gargantuan Hummer with chrome ‘up the ass’ and blacked-out windows.

Last, and by all means least, was Peter Octon, 234th in line to the throne. He started wearing a baseball cap back to front, tucking his hands into his armpits and adopting a London ‘yoof’ accent.

Of course, they all changed their names.

Reece decided to adopt the time old tradition of Chavs and spice girls alike, and decided to ‘trendy up’ his name by being known by ‘first name, then the first initial of surname’…thusly he became ‘Reece E’.

Quentin liked being known as the Bull, but decided it wasn’t ‘street’ enough, so preceded his nickname with the word ‘Dub’, as in N’dubz, and other well known purveyors of rapping arts.

Peter Octon liked what Quentin did, and wanted to change his name to ‘Cool-Oc’, but then decided that ‘cool’ wasn’t ‘cool’, and so changed it to ‘Hip’

As if this wasn’t bad enough, they then decided to form a post-ironic rap group, poking a well-manicured finger at society and its perceptions. Of course, they got the wrong end of the stick and totally arsed this up. On stage they wore tattered suits in an attempt to resemble Stan Laurel (of Laurel and Hardy fame) of all people, and combined hard-core sexploitation lyrics with bungling old-time physical comedy. They sucked.

They were so bad in fact that for months, all I seemed to hear around the campus was people complaining about ‘Hip-Oc’, Reece ‘E’ and ‘Dub-Bull’ Stan duds.

Please forward all letters of complaint to the usual address.
(, Mon 23 Feb 2009, 9:28, 7 replies)
The wrong type of shit

Was walking through the park the other day when I overheard someone shouting.

"You need to clean up after that animal!" said the rather posh voice. "If you can't keep a dog and clean up after it you shouldn't have one. Don't you have any consideration for anyone else in this park?"

Too right, not nice slipping in dog shit. I turned my head to see who had spoken these caustic words to the dog owner.

And I saw some fucker on a horse berating a meek old man with a Yorkshire terrier. Even the terrier looked scared. It was stood next to the incriminating evidence - a small dog turd the size of a garden slug.

The old man was cowering under the snorting nostrils of this beast (and the horse).

I studied the scene a little closer. All the way down the path, following the horse and the fuckwit sat on it, was a trail of stinky horse poo. Great big steamy piles of acrid shit with straw sticking out of it.

"You gonna clean that up, pal?" I asked Mr Horsey as I walked past, indicating the trail of horse shit.

He looked at me like I was insane.
(, Sun 22 Feb 2009, 15:18, 6 replies)
Kurt Cobain
"And I swear that I don't have a gun
No I don't have a gun"

Lying cunt.
(, Sun 22 Feb 2009, 11:37, 7 replies)
HR Insanity
This is pretty much word for word an email I got last year from someone in our HR department whom I knew.

From: HR Bot
To: Powervator
CC: Powervator’s director, CFO, CEO

Subject: Usage of inappropriate language


It has come to my attention that you used inappropriate language in an official, auditable, month-end financial report that you wrote. Although we did not receive an official complaint as such, once it was brought to our attention we felt that this sort of thing should be nipped in the bud as soon as possible. As I am sure that you are aware, this company does not condone in any way, shape, or form, racist language, tone, or behaviour. Your usage of the word ‘niggardly’ therefore did not adhere to this principle and thusly did not adequately reflect the general tenets of the company’s racial equality program that we have laid down and ask(ed!) you to respectfully abide by. Adhesion to this policy is also part of your employment contract.

Looking at your record, although you have not historically displayed any sort of racial prejudice or more general overtly racist behaviour, this incident must and will be recorded on your permanent employee file and could be used in the event of a disciplinary hearing.

As it currently stands, you should consider this to be a formal first strike warning. If two such further incidences arise, then this will be treated as gross misconduct and grounds for instant dismissal.

On a personal note, I know you didn’t mean to write this word and I am sure that you will refrain from using it in the future. Ordinarily we wouldn’t make a big deal of it but times have changed and we have a few coloureds, nig-nogs and pakis that make up the local employment tribunal so we have to kick up a fuss and be seen to be doing the right thing.

No hard feelings.

Yours sincerely,

(, Fri 20 Feb 2009, 17:11, 10 replies)
Hypocritical pompous eco-veggie twats...and other rants
Things that get my goat:

1) Veggies that use the argument that "if you eat meat you shouldn't be squeamish about the slaughterhouse". Now, I've killed, cleaned and gutted animals myself and to be honest, you don't want to cook it straight away, unless you're starving, but that's more because you're up to your armpits in gore. I reckon that a potato farmer could go right off chips if he had to cook the fuckers as well as grow and harvest them.

2) The fact that any vegetarian is arrogant enough to turn up to a meat-eater's house for dinner, then expect the entire party to eat a vegetarian dish, or for a veggie dish to have been prepared (using all separate utensils), yet if you turn up to a Veggie's house for a barbecue and expect a steak, you'd be called a cunt.

3) On this subject, PETA assholes who think murdering doctors is ok in order to save the life of a few white rats and the odd beagle. I love dogs as much as any man, but for fucks' sake, if nothing else, it doesn't owe the tax payer for eight years of medical school funding, for a start...

4) Environmentalists who claim leather shoes are "evil", so wear leather-free shoes (i.e made from plastic, which is a by-product of the petrochemical industry).

5) The idiots who released the mink for a local mink farm into the wild. Let's see, Mink are a) not indigenous to the UK, b) fucking vicious and, c) bigger than stoats and the other predators we have. Cue a killing spree of epic proportions as the evil little sods kill off any competition for five square miles, then procede to atack the local ducks at the pond, peoples chickens, rabbits, guinea pigs, etc... Not only that, but they are breeding quite happily, so we'll soon have no squirrels left in Surrey. For so-called animal lovers, they a) knew fuck all about mink and b) have caused far more death than letting the mink farm run it's course and go bankrupt (Mink farming in a surrey suburb? Great business plan!). The irony is just exquisite.

6) The fact that modern females will go out, get absolutely shit-faced, dress like a hooker, vomit, belch, fart and pick a fight with any passing stranger, yet expects to be treated like a princess. They're the same sort who, despite flashing her thong to an entire nightclub, her tits to passing cabs and her minge to the world as she pisses in the gutter, would become a shrieking harpy if some drunken bloke dared to try and be suggestive, because obviously "I'm not that type of girl, you sexist pig!", etc, etc... No, you are exactly that type of girl, you drunken slapper - you just haven't gotten the last bacardi breezer down your fat neck that causes you to lumber round the streets grabbing hold of men's arses and trying to fuck anything with a pulse. Reverse the genders and it'd be labelled "thuggish behaviour by adisgraceful lout", but because it's a member of the "fairer" sex, it's ok - it's "girls doin' it for themselves, woo! Yeah, you go girlfriend!" - or, shudder, New Ladette behaviour.

7) Feminists (the type who treat all men like they are shit-flinging primates and who believe women can do no wrong)- they and their mates would happily slag off men and rate potential dates, etc, but if they caught the IT nerds doing the same about girls in the office, etc, they'd have an aneurism.

8) Who here, in this post-Germaine Greer, women-are-just-as-good-if-not-better-than-men, era has ever, ever had a door opened for them by a woman? Or had a girl offer to pay for the meal and not have it come back to bite you in the ass later on? Or how many feminists are happy to let her husband take the paid time off to care for the baby, while they go to work? Where's the fight for 9 months paid Paternity leave? Feminism is a case for having-the-cake-and-eaiting-it - equality means zero preferential treatment, so things like divorce cases should make no differentiation between mothers and fathers in custody decisions - it should be based purely on ability to provide, etc - unlike the 90%+ divorces that give custody to the mother by habit...

So much hypocrisy, so much infuriating crap... Ah, fuck it, I don't care - my wife's ace and gets more wound up by this crap that I do (and she's a proper hippy, too, so that shows how badly these loonies are missing the point!)...

Right, flame on!
(, Fri 20 Feb 2009, 12:07, 20 replies)

Take that God!!!
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 14:09, 17 replies)
My mate Steve rolled up at our local recently with his new girlfriend. He looked a bit sheepish. This girl was eighteen years old.

Not a problem, particularly, but Steve had given me loads of shit for going out with a girl five years younger than me a few years back. My ex was twenty-six at the time.

After the pub session the three of us went to the Chinese takeaway over the road.

"What you having, Spanky?" asks Steve.

"Hmmmm, think I'll have the pork um yung, Steve."

Could almost hear his teeth grinding.
(, Tue 24 Feb 2009, 9:04, 7 replies)
Little Bit Of Politics...
Gordan Brown and his secret lover, Maggie Thatcher. Go on. Picture that fat, gurning, one-eyed Jock giving Maggie one up the arse.

I'd just arrived in Oz and had no internet for a few weeks so totally missed the fact that a Labour Prime Minister invited that bat-faced harridan to tea at Number Ten. I mean, what-the-shuddering-fuck?

Had he forgotten the 80's? Had he forgotten what that bitch did to our coal, steel, ship-building and manufacturing industries? Had he forgotten that it was that twat who turned us from a manufacturing country into a Service Industry Nation specialising in finance and banking? That was a fucking smart move wasn't it Maggie? Remember that Gordan?

The wall-eyed spaz who now runs our country has his tongue so far up Thatchers arse that he can lick her tonsils - from the inside. To add insult to injury he's now planning a State Funeral for her. A State Funeral - as if she did something amazing for the country like winning a World War instead of shafting the country for generations to come.

And, while I'm on, Downing Street have totally knocked back my e-petition to have Maggie buried under a disco. It would save queuing for the millions of Labour voters who want to dance on her grave.

Listen you pathetic Porridge-Wog. One of the reasons that you're tanking at the polls is because you've sickened us sucking up to that handbag-weilding witch.

You might have forgotten where you came from, you hypocritical cunt, but we haven't.

And breath....

(, Mon 23 Feb 2009, 9:32, 27 replies)
Religious 'moralists' who would condemn what I do...
...as a geneticist, citing that I shouldn't be "playing God", and then acting like this is a view that's worth taking any note of at all.

I don't condemn you for "playing Thor" every time you go to hang a new painting of Jesus with your handy hammer, and you'd think it was ridiculous for someone holding such a belief to impose their belief upon you. Well, to me, your belief is equally as preposterous as theirs, if not more so, as at least the Norse had a rather shallower understanding of the nature of the universe back then.

Get with the millennium.
(, Fri 20 Feb 2009, 10:31, 9 replies)
My eldest sister
is a teacher. She's also just barely young enough to have missed the Summer Of Love and all the rest of the seminal hippie events, but she completely identifies with that group. She's blindingly intelligent, has an acid tongue when she's pissed off and has the brains to back it up. Politically correct to the nth degree, she'll jump down the throat of anyone she hears utter anything even vaguely racist, sexist or any other ist. Needless to say, I was on the receiving end of that a lot as I grew up.

Fortunately I'm a good learner.

Recently she was discussing how her students are typically inner city black teenage girls, some of whom are exceptionally smart and are aiming for higher education and professions. Her advice to them? "Don't let any guys sweet talk you into sex. Boys are dumb, just remember that- they all think with their penises."

"That's a remarkably sexist thing to say," I commented.

"No it isn't, it's true! Boys think about nothing but sex!"

"And girls think about nothing but clothing and makeup and get thoroughly irrational every twenty-eight days."

Much snarkiness ensued.

One of my sons was dating a girl with rather deep religious convictions- at least she did superficially. A good Southern Baptist girl who attended church all the time and said the appropriate words, but it clearly never really sunk into her what Christianity is all about. My sister referred to her as "that little Baptist girl" in a somewhat disparaging way.

One day the subject came up of how a study was done that showed that praying over someone in the hospital was more likely to result in the patient dying than if no prayers were uttered at all. My sister's observation (which I agree with) was that if you're being prayed over, your condition must be serious- and therefore you're more likely to give up.

"I can see that," I commented. "Imagine being in the Middle East and waking up to-" and I let out a wild ululation.

She glared at me coldly. "You know, we suspended a student not long ago for making fun of the way Muslims pray."

"Really? But it's okay to mock Baptists and Catholics?"

More snarkiness ensued.

And this is why, dear readers, the Resident Loon has such a politically incorrect sense of humor.
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 17:56, 12 replies)
Simon Weston
Didn't give a fuck about disfigured people when you were happily blowing up Argies, did you?

But then you get your face burnt off and suddenly you're patron of 'The Healing Trust'...

(Which way is Hull?)
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 17:30, 15 replies)
After reading Lythium's post
about animal rights activists I am all angry now grrrrrrr!

I go game shooting during the season which runs through autumn and winter. Being conscientious, I always take home the fruits of my labour for the pot, and go to great lengths to ensure that all shot game is retrieved, often in very tricky terrain. During the close season, I take part in various conservation activities like coppicing, litter picks on the coast and along rivers, improvement of cover for ground nesting birds. This in turn is beneficial for all manner of other (often endangered)wildlife - butterflies, birds of prey, field mice etc and as such I get to see wildlife in my shooting areas which I would never get to see if I didn't shoot and help to maintain the areas where I do.

It is my opinion that shooting a pheasant which has spent it's life in the woods eating berries and corn is a much more humane than buying a watery chicken from the supermarket which has spent it's life cooped up in a tiny cage being covered in other chicken's shit, pulling out it's own feathers and pecking the flesh from it's own legs because of the infections which it caught through lack of clean living space. Even the free range chickens which are so popular now have a long way to go (if ever)before their quality of life will be anywhere near that of a wild/reared bird. Also game tastes better and is leaner because it eats natural food (not the slurry and medicines fed to supermarket livestock).

So imagine my fury when some greasy hippy badger kisser criticises me for going out and 'callously blasting sentient beings from the sky', before going home and tucking into a foul roast fowl.

Now I don't mind you expressing your disapproval if you don't eat meat (even if you are wet enough to not eat it because you saw bambi when you were six) because you are not then going home and sanctimoniously practising what you preach.

But if you do eat meat, please get your facts in order before calling someone who enjoys fieldsports a 'murderous bastard' or 'evil wanker'. You have no moral high ground, you narrow minded, bigoted hypocrites.

Sorry rant over!

Length? 40yards maximum for consistent humane kills.
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 14:58, 25 replies)
The Great British Public
Apologies if this has bindun but I'm not trawling through X pages of posts.

The British press and the British public are guilty of the greatest hypocrisy of all - Their attitude towards Jade Goody. If we look back a year ago when Jade was embroiled in the "Shilpa popadom" bruhaha when the public and the fourth estate were baying for her blood for alleged racism. Look back at all of the shite that she's also fed the press and they in turn have fed the peon masses - Jade sucks off some moron in BB - Jades Mum in shoplifting drama - My estranged Dad - Boyfriend beats the shit out of some poor fucker. The public, up until this point, have fucking loathed her with a venom normally only reserved for Myra Hindley.

Fast forward a year "I've got cancer" say Jade. Suddenly everyone's hailing her as a brave princess, wedding this, Jade's love that .... Even the fucking Home Office let her violent ex-con fiancee alter his HDC curfew to marry her. They'll probably shut down the M25 so they can transport her body ala Lady Di with snuffling, weeping council types lining the route.

I'm unaffected, She's still an annoying pig in a dress.
(, Tue 24 Feb 2009, 11:56, 6 replies)
Let's start, and end, with the shirts.
Dressing is a big deal to me -- ever since I (a) became single, and (b) lost 60 pounds, I've become something of a clotheshorse. I don't know the etymology of that expression, but it's such a neat word I wanted to use it. (Am I like a sawhorse, but for clothing instead of sawing?)

At any rate, I've started shopping at the smallest, snottiest, exclusiviest (I know, not a word) little men's boutiques I can find. At first I was content merely having the guys at Nordstrom all know me by name (and call me when they got a new season's worth of fashions), but that was merely a gateway (like marijuana in the eyes of conservatives) to littler shops, where each individual thread in a garment has a value measured in dollars, not pennies.

Sadly, these kinds of shirts require dry-cleaning, which requires that I make it to the dry-cleaner. This is something of an issue for me, because I'm wont to keep odd hours, and because when I'm awake I'm usually working (c.f. "being single, the suckiness inherent therein"). So, for the last week, in preparation for WWDC, I've been driving around with a big blue laundry bag full of dirty shirts in the passenger seat of my pimp ride.

I should mention that, when I was a wee lad, I had visions of one day getting a pimp ride, so that when I passed pretty women on the side of the street who were forlornly walking somewhere, I could pull up and say, "Hey, mamasita, you want a ride?" I've since been informed that women find this, in fact, really creepy, so I've never actually done it, but I have to mention that every guy has a fantasy of one day doing this, even while admitting this fantasy is in direct opposition to any possible reality.

[I should also mention that should I wish to Jackson out and hit on 12-year-old boys, instead of women, a pimp ride is the perfect way to go. The number of times I've had 12-year-old boys yell out "pimp-de-pimp-pimp-pimp!" to me when I drive by is surprisingly high, considering I had previously never heard the "pimp-de-pimp-pimp-pimp" call and have no idea what it means. But for 12-year-olds it's some kind of lingua franca.]

At any rate, you can imagine how cool it is to drive by a pretty woman walking in the rain and think, "Hey, I should offer her a ride... wait, then she'd have to have my big bag of stinky shirts in her lap... that'd probably strike her as pretty strange... possibly even frightening."


So it is that, when packing for WWDC 2005, I only took one good shirt with me. Mind you, this was a really good shirt. This shirt was made in London by a guy named Ted or James or some such, which to me lends instant credibility to it, because as much as I love (the blue states in) my country, when I think of America I think of rebels, I think of individualists, I think of can-do spirit and an indomitable dedication to individual freedoms and happiness. But I don't think, "nice shirts!"

London, on the other hand, has class and panache, and Ted/James clearly was the latest in a long line of shirt-makers who had, for generations, been making shirts for discerning gentlemen, not carrying guns, and/or shipping off criminals to unsettled countries.

Nor is the cotton in this shirt simply from normal cotton plants, oh no. It's grown someplace exotic, like Morocco, and it seems to carry a slight scent of the spices of distant lands on it. Bury your face in this shirt and you can almost hear Bogey whispering, "Listen, kid, this shirt is bigger than the both of us..."

I've received about five or so unsolicited compliments in this shirt, which is five more than I have in any other shirt. Guys don't get complimented on shirts a lot, unless they say, "Hey, look at this shirt," which I admit I've done a couple times, but I'm saying I've been complimented on this shirt without fishing for it, five times.


And so I wore this shirt on Tuesday at WWDC 2005, because Tuesday was the day of the Apple Design Awards. My previous company had won a number of these when I was running it, and so this award had a personal meaning to me. This was the first time my new company had entered, and I had high hopes. And, should I win, I wanted to be up on that stage smiling at the crowd while looking fine in my shirt that combined the best parts of London and Morocco.

And here's where the story take a tragic turn, because, in their unknowable yet infallible wisdom, Apple suddenly decided the Design Awards would be on Wednesday. I found this out late Tuesday, and spent the day grousing to all and sundry about how this messed up my plans vis-a-vis the shirt. And everyone agreed that it was, in fact, a very nice shirt, but I should note that I didn't count these compliments towards my previously-mentioned total of five, because I was really fishing.

For a moment I thought this mishap might end up for the best, because that night several of us nerds ended up at a bar, and in my mildly drunken state I started talking with a pretty lady about... well, I don't remember. Something, I'm sure. We'll call her Laurie Anderson, because she looks just like a young Laurie Anderson, and it'll be more evocative this way. I didn't exactly hit on Laurie, per se, but I will say I was glad I was wearing a nice shirt. It wasn't until the next night that one of her friends let me know, in a very friendly manner, that if I had intentions towards Ms. Anderson I might reconsider them, because she was, in fact, as interested in women as I was.

Which was a nice thing to do, frankly, because it's good to know the boundaries of your relationship with someone right at the start -- I like it when women I'm talking to let it be known they have a steady boyfriend, for example, not because I can then cut bait and run, but because I can adjust my expectations and demeanor accordingly, and not embarrass myself or her. For example, you don't say, "I want to nibble your neck," to a woman with a boyfriend. Instead, you'd use the more coy, "If you didn't have a boyfriend, I would certainly be interested in your neck, vis-a-vis the nibbling thereof." See, it's all about delivery.

But, upon reflection later that night, I felt I hadn't made very effective use of my shirt, and so it was with a heavy heart that I finally took it off, realizing that it had been sullied for naught. Actually, I was pretty drunk when I got back to the hotel, so all I remember is thinking how much effort it was to take clothes off and put them in a pile.


It was the next afternoon (morning having been lost to C2H5OH), while I was putting on one of my t-shirts and again mentioning how unhappy I was to be thus dressed for the Design Awards, that Mike said, with that clarity of vision associated with the genius, "Hey, you could, like, go buy a new shirt."

T2 and I looked at each other, and although it may have been that we were both still under the affects of chemicals, we instantly agreed this was why Mike was The Smart One. My day had a purpose now, and my step had a spring to it.

I asked the concierge where I might find a fancy, fashion-forward shirt in downtown San Francisco. I figured this would be a slam-dunk. Here's a city whose culture ranks up there with New York and Paris. Here's a city where the rich scions of industry have nothing to do with their money but impress each other with their fancy baubles and ornaments.

She pulled out a map and circled a block. "Here's a Nordstrom's!" Wrong, wrong, wrong. First off, Nordstrom's is NOT fashion-forward, even if they do try to sell orange shirts to golfers in the winter. Second, if I wanted to go to freaking Nordstrom's, I'd GO TO THE ORIGINAL ONE, RIGHT NEXT TO WHERE I LIVE. I'm in San Francisco. The city by the bay! Wow me with your culture!

"There's a Saks on 3rd?" NO! No no no no no! You are not getting me. I want a boutique. "Well, Nordstrom's has different departments, they're kind of like boutiques..." No! How'd we get back here? Seriously, no!

Then, suddenly, she saw. "Oh, there's a little place called Pink, you might check that out, if you're not freaked out by the name." Lady, I'm a true metrosexual. I'm not worried about my masculinity when I shop. You could tell me the store is called "Sweaty Men in a Bathhouse" and I'd go there if it had Moroccan cotton.

T2 and I jumped into a cab and I immediately bought two "slim-fit" shirts from Thomas Pink, of London. The gentlemen who helped us were classy and helpful without the slightest trace of condescension, which was nice considering I came in wearing a WWDC polo shirt and T2 had what appeared to be an original 1970s "Dark Side of the Moon" T-shirt on.


This year was the 10th anniversary of the Apple Design awards, and as such they decided to celebrate by gussing the whole event up, in an homage/parody of the Academy Awards. This struck me as entirely apropos, as I estimate to the 1,000 of us nerds who were there, this was our Academy Awards. This was our Nobel prize. This was our moment.

At the start of the evening one of the high mucky-mucks of Developer Relations, who happens to be a very pretty lady, floated onstage in a drop-dead gorgeous gown. We'll call her Natasha Richardson because she looks like a Natasha's younger sister might. (Yes, I know Natasha already has a younger sister.)

There's another fact you should know at this point, which is that nerds are not, inherently, asexual. We don't have much success with women, but that doesn't mean we are immune to their charms. Quite the opposite. We fall under such a spell that we are unable to function, and this renders us so unattractive that it creates a self-perpetuating cycle of desperate singlehood.

So, in that first moment, 1,000 nerds fell in love with Natasha. Well, 996 nerd guys fell in love with her, and the four women in the crowd thought, "Wow, I wonder where she got that dress?" (Laurie Anderson was out partying elsewhere, but I think it's safe to assume she would have been crushing, too, had she been present.)

As she started to speak a strange calm came over the crowd, as if we were cavemen seeing fire for the first time, or rats hearing a certain piper. There was also some guy in a tux on stage with her, I think. I don't know if anyone remembers. Maybe he was tall?

Immediately my mind was no longer on whether I won the award, but on what I would say to her if I did. When the first award was given, the guy who won it kept whispering things to her as his product was described to the crowd, and I noticed that her lapel mic was sensitive enough that we could all hear what he was saying. This dashed somewhat my plans to hit on her on-stage, because everyone in the crowd would be able to hear me saying, "So, uh, want to ride in my car sometime, uh, assuming I move the laundry? I've been led to understand that it's, uh, pimp-de-pimp-pimp-pimp."


When Natasha called out the name of our company for Best User Experience the four of us ran onstage, and I shook her hand as she handed me the cool glowing cube, hand-designed by Jonathan Ives. I think she said, "Congratulations," and if I recall I replied, coyly, "Thanks." Playing it smooth... way to go Wil. Don't tip your hand yet, old boy. Best to slip in under RADAR. Way under RADAR.

Afterwards, the winners all had to come up front to sign a ton of forms in exchange for our phat loot. Natasha was there amongst us, and I recognized that, if ever I would had a chance, this was it. Time to shine!

I strode up to her confidently. Ok, well, I didn't stride, really, because I pinched a nerve in my neck last month, and ever since I've had to walk kind of hunched over, with my head forward, as if I were a cro-magnan man, or possibly just suffered from osteoporosis. Check it out, ladies! I'm unevolved and/or very old!

The problem is, if I stand up straight, the nerve gets pinched and I lose all feeling in my left arm, and the ability to move it. On the other hand, I knew being hunched over was unattractive, so I kept sort of bending my lower torso backwards to compensate for my bent-forward neck, the end effect being that I bobbed along like a pigeon when I walked.

So I coo-cooed up to her and gave her my most winning wince (because I had tweaked the nerve in the bobbing motion). While I admit this isn't a word-for-word transcript, this is, I feel, an accurate depiction of what went down:

Natasha: "Congratulations on your win!"
Me: "Nice dress! So pretty! Where dress come from?"
Natasha: "Oh, an assistant and I just ran out to Saks today to get it." [Note to four women in audience: question answered!] "Anyways, we're all very excited about Delicious Library..."
Me: "Dress soft! Girl pretty!"
Natasha: "Yes... uh, so, it's great to have strategic partners like Delicious Monster on our platform..."
Me: "Dress for dancing. Pretty girl go dancing with me?"
Natasha: "Um, I have to go over... there... now."

A few moments later she had magically changed into an absolutely gorgeous set of matching coordinates to go to dinner. I overheard her say she was going to schmooze some developers. I kind of felt sorry for them, because they really didn't stand much of a chance. "Pretty girl want us port to Macintosh? Us make pretty girl happy!"


The next night we celebrated our win in style, inviting everyone we met from the conference to get free drinks on us at Captain Eddie Rickenbacker's bar, within stumbling distance of Moscone center. Laurie and her entourage came with us, as well as various other new best friends I'd met at the conference. One guy we'd met while out carousing looked and acted almost exactly like Brad Pitt (circa Ocean's 11), so we actually called him Brad to make our lives easy. In fact, a lot of us got celebrity names; our crazy Australian friend was dubbed "Robert Downey, Jr," and it was a title that fit both his looks and his personality perfectly -- I don't think I ever saw him sober during the conference. (I was later dubbed "George Clooney," but I think at this point they were stretching the conceit.)

Robert Downey and I had seen a couple of very pretty, very young German "au pairs" on our way to the bar, and had convinced them to come along because, well, partying with forty guys and one lesbian is only so much fun. I talked to them for a while at the bar, but it soon became clear they were much too young for me, so I grabbed an extra chair and called Brad Pitt over, and they quickly turned their full attention to him. My work done, I wandered outside with a couple drinks, and sat with Laurie while she smoked her "American Spirit"s.

Laurie thought I might be down after getting passed over by the 20-year-olds. "You know, you're much cuter than Brad Pitt," she said, lying in that sweet motherly way that makes you feel good not because you believe it, but because you appreciate the sentiment behind the lie. "Look at you: you're smart, successful, handsome, and very intriguing." Her friend nodded agreement.

And, seriously, whatever liberties I'm taking with the truth elsewhere in this tale, I'm not making this part up:

"Also, you have totally great taste in shirts."

It was then I realised that I fucking hate long QOTW stories that have nothing to do with the subject asked.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 13:35, 9 replies)
Chaps - When you wnat to go for a pint

Drag your girlfriend/wife into every pub in the area, have a look around in each of them before dismissing them for some trivial reason.

Then go back to the first pub that you visited and have a pint there.
(, Fri 20 Feb 2009, 11:38, 7 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Latest, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, ... 1