Buy me a pony.

So funny I think I might kill myself.

Jokes and humour are the sort of thing that are always going to be subjective. Where one person might find something hilarious, another person might react with complete indifference. Where one person might find a comedian vulgar and disgusting, someone else might find them pants-drenchingly hilarious, (probably me. I'm quite juvenile).

The things that you find the most amusing are probably the ones that, for whatever reason, click with your personality. For example, lots of my friends love the film Napoleon Dynamite. I hate it. As far as I can tell, the main character seems to be mentally retarded, and we're supposed to laugh at all the mentally retarded things he does. That seems pretty harsh to me since, you know, he's retarded.

I would guess that I'm in the minority on the Napoleon Dynamite thing, which is fine. The fact that I don't find it funny shouldn't detract from how funny you find it. It's just that the humour clicks with your personality, but it doesn't click with mine. That seems to be one of the side effects of good comedy: it's only funny for a specific subset of the population, which includes you.

Most of the time I can see how other people might find something funny, even if I don't. To return to my Napoleon Dynamite example, I can see how people might find the absurdity of the situation funny, or the strange cast of weirdos that Napoleon calls a family. Not my particular cup of tea, but there you go.

Get rippling muscles of muscles on your muscles!

A few weeks ago the pangs of hunger gave me the brilliant idea of writing for magazines. Magazines like Cosmopolitan and FHM are big business, I figured they'd have some spare money lying around to give me. I was practically salivating at the prospect of the riches that would come raining down on me as soon as I sent them my brilliant, mind blowing, world changing article, "The Softness of Fingers: how you can get rich and lose weight by not using toilet paper." (It's a work in progress).

I can picture you reading this, nodding your head in agreement and saying something like "Wow, that is an amazing article. I can't wait to read it. What a brilliant plan Sam." If you're a woman you may find yourself becoming spontaneously aroused from reading the title. How could this possibly go wrong?

Birthday Surprise.

Thieves must pay!

You know what I'm really afraid of? Idea theft. Though I suspect not in the way most people are afraid of it. My fear is less that someone else will steal my ideas, and more that I will accidentally steal other people's.

Whenever something becomes popular there are legions of people on the internet ready to cry foul, and claim that they've stolen every idea they ever had. While the righteous anger of the internet is quite regularly misplaced, in general I'm in favour of a strong culture of anti-plagiarism. I think credit should always find its way to the people who came up with the idea. It always makes me cringe when I see people praising something that I know was stolen from someone else.

The thing that scares me, though, is the possibility that I might be stealing ideas and not even know it.

Orange you glad I didn't say apple?

The Sin of Pride

When I was six I spent my school holidays at one of those holiday program things. You know, the ones that are sort of like being at school, but not. If you've never heard of a "school holiday program" it's basically a way of making sure that your kids don't run onto the road while you're at work. You pay a company money to hire are a couple of uni students on minimum wage to keep a bunch of bratty kids in a rented hall. If they lose any they get fired.

From time to time there were "fun" activities planned for the kids. This particular day they'd decided to herd the kids off to mini-golf; mostly to stop them screaming for one god-damn second.



As you can imagine, I wasn't the most normal kid. My brain sometimes seemed to make connections that were a little bit odd. For one thing I thought that track-suits were the height of fashion. I refused to wear any other style of clothing. I was also desperately afraid of doing anything embarrasing, which is strange given that when you're wearing a track-suit your whole life automatically becomes a joke.

To an extent I'm still afraid of embarrasement. I spend a lot of my life flinching as I fend off assault after assault of bad memories. You might well ask why, if I'm so uncomfortable with my own humiliation, I choose to publish it on the internet for all to see? I dunno. I guess I'm just stupid.

Anyway, this particular day the temperature outside was around fifty-million-billion degrees. The fierce eye of Ra was hot enough to liquefy the tarmac. Stepping outside was like stepping into an oven that was baking a block of uranium. This wasn't really the optimum temperature for a kid who permenantly dressed in winter clothes.



In all its wisdom, the holiday program had decided that the best activity for a hot day was a vigorous afternoon of mini-golf. Outside.

Pay attention, they bring your food.

Today I was standing in my favourite cafe waiting to order my daily dose of frothy coffee goodness when I saw something that kind of bugged me. One the waiters walked out to a table to deliver some coffees. He walked up to the table and asked, in a loud, clear voice that I could hear from the queue, "Who ordered the latte?"

Blank. Stares.

Seriously. It's was like he'd just asked the question in Icelandic then demanded that they respond in iambic pentametre.

Eventually one of the ladies at the table realised that the drink was hers and there was much rejoicing all around. My question is this: how did that even happen? I mean the waiter was standing right there, holding the coffe you ordered not five minutes ago. Is your attention span so short that you actually forgot doing that?

Of course its much more likely that the woman just wasn't paying attention, but you know what? That bugs me just as much. What the hell was going through her head as she looked at the waiter? Maybe she was falling into his dreamy brown eyes and imagining them as pools of chocolate. Maybe she had a mini-seizure. We'll never know, but the strange thing is that the phenomenon of not paying attention to the serving staff seems to be quite common. I have a couple of friends who will do the same thing as that woman every time we go out, without fail. I've seen waiters start to walk away with their food before they even realise what's going on, it's like they have blind spot for anything carrying a plate. It gets to me every time.

Bonus Comic!

Bonus comic for today! I’m not entirely sure what I was thinking when I drew this, but why should I deprive you of something disgusting?

Winners and Losers

The urinal is my prayer mat.

Today I followed this dude into a public toilet, and I was like, "Holy shit that chick is walking into the male toilets. Wait, wait. That's a girly looking guy."

Watching this girly-man enter the bathroom ahead of me left me with a dilemma. The toilets aren't very big, and I value my privacy whenever I have my wang out. The fact that I'd paid attention to his features meant that, even if he was in a stall, I would have a really clear mental picture of him grunting and straining the entire time I was in there.

I hadn't actually entered the toilets yet, so I figured I could just abort the whole operation and pretend that I needed something nearby. That way I could return when conditions were more favorable.

On the other hand I needed to piss like a racehorse. I'd been holding onto my bladder for so long it felt like there was a little surgeon's scalpel trying for force its way down my urethra.

I went for it.

When the toilets are empty I usually find peeing quite relaxing. It's the one point in the day when no-one can expect you to do any work. You can literally feel your day getting better.

True Love

Why I lose at life.

There are lots of people on earth that I envy. I envy people who can naturally wake up early in the morning. I envy people who actually enjoy exercise. However, there's one set of people that I think I envy more than any other: people people.

You know. the kind of person who says "I'm a people person, I love meeting new people." And then they're all like "Let's go to a party because I have so many friends."

Well, you know what? Fuck you people person. Fuck you right in the pooper.

Children are dicks.

Ah the happy sounds of children playing. Listen to the way their games take them to magical worlds of imagination. Now listen closer. They're taunting the fat kid. Apparently the wonderful world of imagination they're being transported to is one where he hangs himself.

People often say "kids can be mean," but they always say it in that voice that silently inserts the caveat "but you'll be alright in the end." I think that's wrong. Kids are sinister little bastards, and given half a chance they'll do stuff that crosses the line of viscous and keeps going into down-right dangerous. You see, kids aren't just mean, they're also phenomenally stupid. A potent combination. Don't believe me? Then think back to your own childhood. If you can't think of even one pointlessly mean thing you did in your childhood then you're probably still a horrible person now.

Also, if you're reading this and thinking "what a sanctimonious dick!" My answer to you is this:

I know you are, I said you are, but what am I? 

Keeping in mind that children are stupid, stupid dicks I present to you a story about how awful my friends and I were as children, because it's important to recognise when you've done something evil. Also it was kinda funny...


Yeah, I'm probably still a dick.