Mister Horrible's Ugliness Glob

Ignore This: It's All Simon's Fault

12 The Ballroom

02 Leaps and Bounds

07 Before Too Long

13 From Little Things Big Things Grow

15 Every Fucking City

Chalk Another One Up For Brilliant Research

  In another fascinating entry to the world's "No Fucking Shit, Dumbfuck" hall of fame research by experts that probably cost more money than I make in a decade found:

Severe Acne May Raise Suicide Risk

I can not see how our generation's Einsteins ever came up with such an astoundingly counter-intuitive thesis. My head's wanting to blow up just from the amazingness of it all. Awaiting the popping sound, consider why I'm so unimpressed with the insight here, and fight off any urges you might get of offing yourself from the mere proximity to such geysers of pus.

 

 

They Look Alike, They Talk Alike...

So whaddya think: is there no chance we'll ever see this pair in the same room at once, or has Queen Fabiola of Belgium been calling Phil Spector's hair dresser to the castle of late?

Who Would?

  Take a byline, that is, for an unspeakably fucking shite story like this one?

Cerebral palsy sufferer broke both legs on 'healing pilgrimage'

A cerebral palsy sufferer took a pilgrimage to Lourdes in the hope it would help her condition returned home with two broken legs after falling from a hoist.

Now, don't get my irritation wrong: I know The Telegraph is a notoriously shitty paper whose web site regularly dips its head below even the sewer-level standard the daily maintains--at time printing "scoops" its reporters imagined or made up (presumably to fill daily stories quotas editors set. I'm assuming there are quotas, because there's no explaining why on earth any media would churn out a lot of the fecal-splattered garbage the The Telegraph's site does otherwise.)

So my vexation isn't over the discovery that The Telegraph isn't struggling to reverse the risible reputation it suffers: however ugly to watch, self-mutilation is considered a right of free people and organizations. What hacks me off is how the above story also contributes the spiraling level of  journalism generally by taking that gradual dive to a stunning new low of retardatia. The piece focuses on people sufficiently fucked up enough to think going to Lourdes seems like a logical method of being cured of irreversible maladies, and coming away from that even more fucked up after the Feebos who operate the entire faith addict allow A Terrible Accident to happen, causing even more injury and handicap to the chode who'd gone there due to her no-hope status in the first place. Sad, I suppose, if you happen to be the tweak involved or their family, but pretty damned predictable on a number of levels if you think about it. Lourdes is Desperate Central. People who go there are reaching so far it's evident bad shit's gonna eventually happen (especially in the constant absence of miraculous shit never happening). It's like going to a faith healing convention for incontinents and coming away cheesed off when your slacks wind up inundated--or lavishly splashed-upon--when retention doesn't magically descend all everyone as expected.

The point being--empathy for their initial condition notwithstanding--the people featured in this story are idiots who fucked up their lives further by doing more idiot things, and wind up victimized by the lameness of fellow idiots. Then they complain about that and...The Telegraph decides it's major news.

Know why? Because The Telegraph is a fucking idiot publication, that--to boot--assumes anyone who'd read it must be a fucking idiot, too. And based on this story, I'm thinking that may be correct. That raises the question "why do people read The Telegraph?", which in turn sparks and rhetorical query serving both as an answer--and title of this post. 

Oh, and since we're speaking about Lourdes and miracles (and since I haven't quite emptied my bucket of bile just yet), what's keeping Madonna (the singer, not the mameleh of Jesus) from dispatching her kid to the grotto to see if Bernadette Soubirou can work any magic that laser treatment and Nair obviously ain't conjuring up? This child gets any more hirsute, she's going to have to braid her face.

Look On the Bright Side

    At least her experience as a switch-hitter will make rooming with Large Marge a whole lo easier for her. Or is that just mean?

Been Stupid Lately?

So, you may be out of work, or worried about losing your job, or worried about losing your home because you've lost your job (or may do so soon), or are otherwise preoccupied with the myriad life-mutilating threats before us in the world today. Or, you may actually have things pretty well, but just don't have time to waste on fucking idiots banging on about non-topics that some micro-community of people who don't really have any relation to anything worth mentioning. Yet that hasn't stopped the editors at the New York Times from stopping the world from spinning in order to provide you with the untold World Cup story that will change the course of history for all time:

Brazil’s Journalists Grumble at Strict Rules

If you haven't read this story, don't bother: I made it about 70% through before the obvious became just too huge to ignore: that this was a privileged journalist with an incredibly cushy job and fat assignment writing about other privileged journalists with incredibly cushy jobs and the same fat assignment bitching about how annoying the current World Cup is because they can't do whatever they want. Of course, we give a shit.

Next up: a New York Times reporter writes about the banal details of his family, just because.

And Speaking Of Timely Death

...I'd argue it was easily time that Robert Byrd cacked. I mean, when you start looking like a geriatric Robert Smith (with admittedly toned-down mascara and better-combed hair), it's about time to shed this mortal coil for your own good:

It's Time To Die...

...when you look like this--in part due to bad plastic surgery and getting inked up the way those classy death row inmates do--in the hopes you'll still look young, lithe, hip, even sexy as you did 30 years ago if you fake it hard enough. Imagine wanting attention bad enough to look like this:

Brain Viagra

  How 'bout that: Team England's collective IQ just shot from one to three digits (three small digits, mind).

Rio Ferdinand out of England World Cup squad

Horrible Etiquette 2.0

All right. It’s become pretty clear that neither parents, schools, or other dispensaries of run-of-the-mill good sense have either gone on strike or got caught under a building during a Haitian vacation (eh, fuck ya), because there’s been a sudden rise in too-obvious-to-ignore cases of people airily doing incredibly stupid things in public. In fact, I’ve had to start gagging myself before boarding mass transit just to keep myself from screaming at idiots behaving as though they’re invisible. In the spirit of public education, then, here is a very brief, “Mister Horrible’s Don’ts and Don’ts List” for anyone thinking about leaving homes this year:

 

    1) Men: no matter how strong much the animal grooming urge in you becomes, simply do not dig a digit from either hand into a orifice on the idea nobody will notice the attempt to itch, dislodge, or extricate. Body will. Body do. Body spend lots of time vomiting as a result. Body know that’s nose-picking you’re up to—and also know you aren’t going to deposit the bounty found in your pocket.

Body also not fooled by your Oscar-winning performance of “I’m just plucking my bunched up undies from the painful, puckered spot they’ve become wedged in”, and quite aware you’re giving that dangling ‘roid such a hearty scratch that it’ll remain hooked on a rib for much of the week. You’re in public, for chrissakes.

 

    2) Ladies: make-up, if it must be put on, should be put on at home. Even if you don’t have a natural face that looks like it should be staring angrily out of a glass cage at gaping school children on a visit to the Reptile House, you lose far more points applying your eye-liner, lipstick, and pancake base with a fucking paint roller than you gain in looking less anemic, ring-eyed, and acne-scarred.

And the “fuck you; I don’t care if this is about one percent better than me squatting down and peeing in public, either” attitude you convey in no way intimidates the people trying to divert their gaze anywhere else. In fact, I often find myself inspired to follow public-make-up-appliers around all day with my iPhone, shouting “Anyone wanna see what this skag looks like before she adds 20 kilos of Max Factor to her mug?!”

(Yeah, you didn't have a nose job, either. Nah, someone just replaced that fucking road kill potato nailed to your face at birth with a, ah, road kill carrot. Sure.)

It’s call “personal hygiene” because it’s “personal”—keep it that way. Applying make-up in the bus isn’t much different then a man who plucks tufts of his abundant ear hair out in the subway. Oh, and now that I mention it: no plucking the eye brows, either.

 

    3) Both genders: Don’t eat in the subway. Don’t eat in the bus. Don’t eat in the train, tramway, don’t eat in the fucking rickshaw. Don’t eat. First off, you look like a fucking cow that was either too disorganized or stupid to figure out a way to eat somewhere civilized—say, sitting down, at home or in a café—and therefore has to masticate its plastic-wrapped cud standing up among repulsed commuters? Why are they disgusted? Because, Julia Child, your sandwich invariably stinks like dinner time in the trailer park; your croissant flakes the fuck everywhere, leaving greasy little smears; the package of cookies you mechanically snarf snow crumbs all over and are sure to make you look like an over-sized toddler waiting to get obese; and anything you’ve picked up in McDonalds—including a paper napkin or sterilized ice cub—is going to reek the joint out of Happy Meal. It just will. 

 

Oh, and if you won’t hold off for other people do it for yourself: you know how, when you were a semi-retarded, disgusting child, you actually didn’t quite understand why it was mummy repeatedly told you not to put coins in your mouth? Well, public transport makes metal currency look more pure than Mother Theresa’s gennies. Millions of people touch, cough, shed skin, and—as we’ve established—dig, scratch, extract, and de-hirsute themselves in public transport; eating inside such a system is like daintily spooning up macro-biotic gourmet faire during a hurricane in an over-crowded morgue. If you want to be disgusting, leave the fucking sarnie at home and just lick the subway pole or French kiss the bus flood.

 

    4) Both genders (but mostly women): there is, in fact, no law of nature or social obligation to have a cylindrical container containing a beverage in your hand during ever second of the commuting day. I know looking around suggests otherwise, but it’s true. You don’t need the cup. And it’s quite clear you don’t actually want the beverage, because you simply clutch it without ever taking a fucking drink from it. What’s worse is, over time, you wind up not just looking like some scabby parrot holding some kind of asshole bird toy in your scaly claw; as the weeks of this must-always-be-holding-drink obsession wears on with time, you actually start to hold the container out, away from you, with arm nearly fully extended as though the fucking thing contains the secret power that will lead you to the places fate has destined you go each day. Swap the cup for a knife and you suddenly look like a slightly better-groomed Charles Manson looking for a Sharon Tate clone.

Forget the cups and drinks. You pee enough as it is. 

 

     5) Men: you’d be stunned—no, incredulous—to learn this, but neither your weenie nor your scrotum are so ponderously voluminous that you must sit with your knees at least two feet apart. There are no muscular reflexes that prevent you from keeping your legs together when seated, thereby creating more room to the people to the right and left of you whose space you’ve invaded with your fat fucking pegs. 
And don’t give me the shite about your fat stomach handing down and needing space—that makes the entire scene even worse. Believe it or not, people really don’t want the legs-akimbo invitation to imagine what kind of impossibly tiny plumbing must be smothered under that gut.

 

    6) Women: don’t push your man’s blackheads. Yes, you do. You do it in buses, you do it in subways, you do it in trains, planes on the beach—even at café tables if you happen to spot one that looks ripe. Don’t Do It. Fewer thinks could be more revolting. If you need to make everyone around immediately nauseous, reach down and give your man’s dangling ‘roid a finger boost upwards—he’s dying to do that himself anyway.

 

    7) Both genders: you know this—we all know this—but no one wants to hear your cell phone conversation. If the person isn’t dying, it can wait (and if they are, how long does it say, “Well, can’t do much for you from here. Nice knowing you”?) If work is that important, go back to the office. If you’re late, telling the waiting party where you are—and giving them a real time demonstration of “how this bus just won’t get moving” won’t change anything. Oh, and special mention for those commuters aged 13-20, who seem to thing cell phone conversing in public is a performing art: when you find yourself winding up each sentence after three or four words with the incessantly repeated additive “blah blah blah” or “etc. etc. etc.”, it’s an indication that both you and your interlocutor know what you’d be saying if you completed the phrase using actual language. That, in turn, is a sure sign you both—and everyone forced to hear your chat—pretty much know everything you’ll possible saying before you even try. So don’t—it’s a waste of time. Shut the fuck etc. etc. etc.