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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, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, ... 1

This question is now closed.

All those celebrity eco types
Who preach how we should save the earth and burn our cars.

How many of them have you ever seen polling up to an opening night on horseback? Or going on their yearly trip to hug a rainforest tree on a yacht, rather than in a private jet?
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 17:07, 1 reply)
...always going on about how nice gay guys are - but ask the missus to take it up the Gary Glitter and see the response you get...
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 16:30, 3 replies)
Wife Swap
on TV; Ive watched a few and they NEVER end up shagging each others wives; false advertising I reckon.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 16:18, 2 replies)
is it just me but...
lesbians who fancy women who look incredibly butch?

similarly, lesbians who like massive dildos and strap-ons up them? (yes but it would seem they do Captain Mainwaring)

and gay blokes who fancy men that look like women?

i'm light years from being homophobic and it may seem simplistic but if you are a bloke who likes blokes why would you want an effeminate one surely youd want a 'manly' one

and if you are a chick that digs other chicks why would you NOT want one that looks erm feminine

i remember reading a quote from ronnie kray "im not a poof - I'm a homosexual, i like men" hardly a balanced individual - but he had a point there.

*pops lou reed's transformer on* (one of my desert island disks)

*awaits torrent of flame*

(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 15:57, 20 replies)
If you look on youtube, then if they've not taken it down - you might be able to find the scene cut from Spiderman 2 of Doctor Octopus smoking a roll-up while taunting Spiderman, his eyes looking kinda glassy.

This was intended to make him look 'cool', but it was decided not to leave it in the final cut or even on the DVD. This wasn't because he was supposedly smoking pot, oh no. This is because someone had started a rumour on set which the executives believed. That the finest Rizla rollup (well, dogend) did not in fact contain the fake stuff they use on film sets. It contained crushed ecstacy. And as cool as it looked, they couldn't be seen to advertise drugs to the viewers of the film.

Shame really. I would have liked to see the Hip Ock Riz-E
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 15:28, 1 reply)
Sort of hypocrisy
There's been quite a bit of posting about vegetarians. I once knew someone at university who was a vegetarian who ate fish.

This annoyed me somewhat, as I thought it hypocritical to avoid eating the 'cute' animals only. But I have to admit, I was impressed by his reasoning. When I asked him, he said something like this;

"I know, but if something has to die before I eat it then I shouldn't eat any animal I wouldn't be willing to kill myself. I don't think I could bring myself to kill a cow or a bird, so I shouldn't eat beef or chicken. But I do think I could kill a fish, so I've got no problem eating them."

I do eat meat. I'm not entirely sure I could kill a sheep though.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 15:10, 4 replies)
They don't eat meat on the grounds of "it's bad to kill the poor animals".

One pig feeds several people for months. A countryside family can live by the products of several animals, killing less than one pig a year or a couple of chicks a month, with moderation in all. Well, aided by what constitutes vegan food.

But on a hip veggie breakfast the entire population of 10 square feet must die for the wholemeal bread, tofu, cereals or orange juice.

Eat dead by natural causes leaves or fallen branches if you believe killing animals is bad.

Plants are lifeforms, you know. You fucking murderer.

Or maybe you thing plants are inferior and unimportant. That makes you a racist (hm, a domainist, maybe) as well.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 15:09, Reply)
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)
Any vegetarians or vegans who "sometimes eat steak".

Also, lesbians who use dildos.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 13:35, 6 replies)
The Tale of Luther
The glory of break time was upon us once again and the senior kids piled into the school canteen in their droves. There was a curious tradition at my school where only the kids in their final year were allowed in at small break. This afforded us the status we so obviously deserved, but it also provided a platform for some debating, the odd music show and the occasional rant from one the more demented lads. During a lull in proceedings a freakishly large boy called Bradley climbed onto a table to announce that he had a ground breaking bit of news. It was so amazing that he wouldn't tell it to us until absolute silence was observed.
The next minute or so was spent with everyone telling each other to shut up until we reached a point where the 'shhhs' and shouts of 'shut up!' actually exceeded the original decibel level. Growing impatient Bradley eventually shouted, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!". That seemed to work rather well and a hush descended over the room.

'Right lads', he began 'I've just been to the toilet and while I was looking for an empty bog I happened to look over one of the doors and saw something very interesting'.

It should be noted at this point that the toilets at my high school were exceptionally small. We ranged in age from 13 - 21 (school ended at 18 normally, but some thick ones managed to drag it out) and they had obviously decided to accommodate for the 13 year olds and buy the smallest toilets they could. I was somewhere close to 6ft and I my legs were somewhere round my ears when I was going about my business. Central to this story is the fact that the doors were equally small and could quite easily be peered over when walking past which is what Bradley had done.

'Who wants to hear about it?' continued Bradley. This being an all boys school it was met with the usual chorus of replies like, 'Your mother fucks for bus fare and still walks home', 'Shut up you knob' and 'Hey Bradley, you were born out of your mothers arse cos her cunt was too busy'. Nevertheless Bradley had obviously decided that these comments still counted as a yes vote and pressed ahead.
'I've just spotted Luther(name changed for obvious reason, but trust me this is an improvement) with a porn mag on his lap having a wank in the toilets'.

Well, you can imagine that all hell broke loose. The year was 1995 which was one year after the birth of the new South Africa, but trust we were far more excited about this. It was however the start of a living hell for Luther. He was hounded at every turn. By his classmates, by every other kid in the school and this golden nugget of information was even gifted to all the teachers. There wasn't a person in the buildings of 700 strong who didn't know. Shit, I even think the groundsman knew.

The situation became so tenuous for him that he resorted to seeking help from the vice-principal. This help came in the form of a speech that he gave to the whole school during morning assembly where he talked about "our natural urges" and then proceeded to describe how all children, even him, had these urges during adolescence and that "we all, at one time or another, act on these urges".

This pep talk did nothing but exasperate the situation for poor Luther and his new name for a short time was 'Natural Urge', however we soon reverted back to our favourite of plain old Wanker.

The final straw for Wanker came in our special prefects assembly one day. This was a gathering of pupils and prefects only and no teachers were allowed. It was a jovial affair where awards for the coolest walk (given to a guy who had a motorcycle accident and had smashed his leg up), Best haircut (given to Dick Head whose mum had obviously just placed a salad bowl on his head and traced the edges religiously to form the most perfect bowl haircut you had ever seen. His real name was Richard, but Dick Head seemed more fitting) and smartest pupil (given to someone who's parents who obviously too poor to buy him a smart new blazer every year). As I said before, this was a jovial affair. At the end of assembly they announced they had a special award that had never been given out before and probably never would again. With great fanfare and much hype it was announced that this would be given to Luther. And the name of this award? Why the "Wankers Award" of course!

Luther stood up in a rage and yelled some profanities along the lines of 'You don't understand. You're all cunts. ALL OF YOU!!!!'. And that was the last day he ever set foot in that school. He left for pastures new.

The hypocrisy of the whole situation was that we were all little wankers. Yes, we did have urges and I bet everyone in that school produced enough semen in a week to fill an entire Olympic Swimming pool. Wankers, the lot of us!
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 13:10, Reply)
In a shop today
I considerately dropped a sneaky silent one for the other customers to enjoy, then slunk nonchalantly away to another area of the shop to avoid blame.

However over here I encountered someone who literally couldn't have showered for a month; it was awful. I was thinking about how terrible this stench was when it occurred to me that people over there were still looking distinctly uncomfortable in the pocket of brimstone I'd just deposited.
Ho hum.

Epilogue: Smelly man then wandered over to the scene of my crime, before leaving again very quickly. Bwahahahaha.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 12:42, Reply)
well check out the replies, I win!
to www.b3ta.com/links/281966

and www.b3ta.com/links/282065

I know the Vanishing point clip is the shit remake but never mind
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 11:56, Reply)
Jaqcui Smith
Ah, our darling home secretary. who, in her fight against Terrorism on our behalf has decided to preserve democracy by taking it away from us.

That's like saying to a kid - "Your birthday cake is so yummy, that to make it last longer, Mummy says you can't have any."

What a load of fucking bollocks.

So what happens after she's gone halfway to having us all barcoded? She has her expenses investigated.

Can I just repeat your lazy, conformist shrug-of-the-shoulders motto to you, Ms. Smith?


Yeah, right.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 11:47, Reply)
for a company calling itself a Virgin
it certainly seems to show a lot of porn films
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 11:16, 2 replies)
that sausage is definitely NOT halal!
after some conversations with a guy i worked with, who is a relatively devout muslim, we got onto the topic of sex/lust. he was going on about how he deliberately avoids material that will cause stirrings in the trouser. his words: 'of course, i'm human, i look at a pretty woman in a bikini and it makes me think bad thought, but as a muslim, i know that's wrong, so if soemthign comes on tv i change the channel, i avoid magazines like loaded, i don't really like seeing people in clubs kissing, it's totally not my deal.'

imagine my surprise then, when he offers to let me copy some film we were discussing off his portable hard disc, i plug it into my laptop, and in a subfolder of his movies directory entitled 'study' i find about 12 gig of all anal gangbang porn. i kid you not.
made me laugh anyhow. i don't think any worse of him for it, shit, you should see our server at home, but it made me laugh nonetheless.

silly bugger.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 11:07, 1 reply)
My 4 year old nephew....
...once commented to me that I should shave my goatee off.
I replied why, as you would, and he answered "Cos you look gay."
He's the one who takes it up the ass, not me. Fucking hypocrit.

Only jokesies officer....
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 10:44, 1 reply)
Boys' Nights Out
On rare occasions, usually once the third blue moon has been sighted after every third leap year, the lads and I are permitted to go on our own to a local public house of our choice to enjoy a small number of weak shandies and to exchange sarcastic one-liners concerning the performance of certain sporting teams or other such trivial matters. The evening is planned in advance, the plans, timings and destinations are submitted for approval to our respective Significant Others and permission is granted.

The only problem being is that despite that it is a Boys' Night Out and an approved event, without fail, some or all of our respective other halves will arrive during the course of the evening. Sometimes this is without notice. Other times one of us will receive a text message from her, expressing boredom and asking if she or they might be permitted to join us for the last drink of the evening*. More often, a Ladies' Night Out will be swiftly arranged to "unwittingly" coincide with our night, and of course paths will cross. Many a rare Boys' Night Out has been, quite frankly, hijacked in one of these ways.

On the other hand, should a Ladies' Night Out be arranged, usually when there is a Friday at the end of a four week period, and the Boys ask to come along, we are informed that by virtue of the name of the event, ie Ladies' Night, and the fact that we possess certain parts that make us not Ladies, we cannot join in. We are also not permitted to know where they are going, what time they might possibly be returning** or who else is taking part in this event.

Why is this? Hypocrisy of the highest order.

* immediately- they're already dressed up and in the taxi on the way.
** We don't want to keep tabs, we worry and care in a good way. If we didn't, you'd complain.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 9:05, Reply)
Hey veggie-hippies:
Hitler was a vegetarian you know.

Well, he cooked lots of vegetables anyway.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 7:01, 11 replies)
my friend Marvin
is constantly breakdancing. Yet he's the first to criticise others when they bust so much as a single move. I have yet to see a more blatant example of hiphoprisy.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 6:23, 1 reply)
TV rating hypocrisy!
Quiz: who can tell me what popular show, aimed at children, had a title character who had sex with corpses? It's not on any more, but you will have heard of it.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 6:20, 9 replies)
My Hypocrisy
I frequently complain about people lying on QOTW
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 5:08, 4 replies)
who blow-up Family Planning clinics or kill Doctors who perform abortions 'because what they're doing is murder'.
right then.
(, Sat 21 Feb 2009, 3:32, Reply)
Hippocrates, the lot of them.
(, Fri 20 Feb 2009, 23:57, 1 reply)
I fucking hate identity theft

(, Fri 20 Feb 2009, 23:42, Reply)
Oh, they say "Love thy neighbour" but when you bum their wife they don't like it.

Not a jot.
(, Fri 20 Feb 2009, 23:20, 2 replies)
Gordon Brown
having tea with Maggie Thatcher last year.

(, Fri 20 Feb 2009, 22:39, 8 replies)
I made jokes about how fat a woman
on the telly was while I was eating chocolate and failing to go to the gym.
(, Fri 20 Feb 2009, 21:39, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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