|war||April 18, 2016, 11:16 am|
has been declared. Two enter, only one will leave.
I have three mates; Jock, Paul and Shaun. Both Paul and Shaun own property right next door to each other. This is ironic and slightly tragic, because they fucking loathe each other.
Jock, Paul and I are in the pub getting minkit. Shaun is not in the pub, because he is banned again for twatting somebody during a particularly aggressive karaoke competition. Everyone is pished.
Jock and Paul go home together, and because Paul is stuck in the 90's, decides to start blaring Happy Hardcore on his stereo at one o'clock in the morning. This irritates Shaun, who proceeds to Paul's doorstep and has the mother of all chimpouts allover his welcome mat. Paul and Jock answer door and threats are made; things are said that cannot be unsaid. Shaun threatens to do Jock in, so Jock punches him in the face.
The police are summoned. Jock makes his escape out of a second floor window and flees into the night, a wanted man who is still, as far as I know, at large. Paul declares his innocence of the assault; as he is only guilty of terrible taste in music and not of actual assault, the police leave him be with a simple caution.
Fast forward half an hour after the police have left. Paul sits in his living room in a coma. He is rudely awakened by the brick that comes sailing through his front window. Clean through. There is no note attached to the brick, because Shaun has a bit more class than that. Paul rushes to his door to confront his attacker, but of Shaun there is no sign. Instead, he sees that someone has spent his half-hour productively, and has carved the word DICK nine inches high into his door with some sort of cutting instrument.
I fucking love my mates. But they are probably going to kill each other at some point this week.
|quote||February 8, 2016, 7:14 pm|
No reason, other than I felt like sharing a quote that has been bouncing around inside my skull for the past decade. I will quote, and then you will add a quote, and we will all revel in some awful heathen quotation gangbang and look less spastic by association.
“There is a common emotion we all recognize and have not yet named -- the happy anticipation of being able to feel contempt.”
- Thomas Harris
|240 litres of dogshit||January 15, 2016, 6:58 pm|
I must share this, else I will go mad.
I have a friend. He is an idiot, but I try not to discriminate. Said friend has two dogs; they shit mountains.
The council introduced "Garden Waste" bins about three years ago. They are for stuff that is clearly meant to be fertilizer; old plants, grass clippings, etc. And, indeed, dog shit. Dog shit is apparently A-OK with this scheme. I imagine it is full of nitrates and worms.
Now, picture this if you will - My friend is no gardener. He owns two dogs. He has a brown topped, eco-friendly bin for garden waste. He has put a year's worth of dog shit into said bin. A pound of dog shit, no more, no less, only dog shit, multiplied by two and multiplied further for every day of the year. This bin is made of dog shit. It is an epic dog shit bin.
Out he wheels it onto the street during the designated day. The deed is done.
Now, the council bin collectors are well trained. Verily, they expect people to try to sneak toasters and broken electronics into their Garden Waste bin. They check before they recycle shit into their bin lorry. They give all offerings an eyeball before they add it to the pile.
They find the dog shit worthy. The little green polystyrene bags that the dog shit is contained in, however, are not bio-degradeable.
They refuse to lift the bin and depart, chortling, for new horizons.
My friend, my dumb, stupid, mentally retarded friend, now has 240 litres of dog shit to separate from bags by hand. Or, alternatively, he has 240 litres of dog shit to fly-tip somewhere out in the country. A tricky task, because my friend is also a massive spastic, and has only one functioning arm and a gammy leg and only one hemisphere of his brain works at any given time.
The bin is full. The dogs keep shitting. Wedging the bin lid down will only work for so long. And I don't think I have ever laughed so hard in my entire fucking life.
|Some utter BASTARD (vidja music)||September 24, 2015, 8:11 pm|
yes! I have been introduced to dwarf fortress by an utter wanker and thus have lost my life until next year. So, to keep me company until spring, I need MP3's, because I am now fed up of the DF soundtrack.
Specifics: old video game sound tracks. Made of Metal, preferably. If not, at least orchestrated. Anything from the NES - PS1 era will do nicely. Already jamming to the Stemmage Metroid remixes, so there's the watermark. Still looking for a good version of FF VII's JENOVA, so points for that if at all possible.
Straight to the MP3 if you please. No Youtube shit, unless accompanied by a direct download link. Not fucking about here, this needs to keep my ears well wanked until April. Unleash your finest. No doubt other people on the forum are looking for similar, so we can make this a SPAM MUSIC THREAD.
|alcoholics anon||July 2, 2015, 12:23 pm|
Apparently I drink an average of 44 units of beer in a week. This is considered to be a bad thing.
Compiling a high score board of DW regulars. Be honest.
And now, I'm off to the pub to drink until I'm retarded.
|v&||January 25, 2015, 8:53 am|
So, I called the police a bunch of fascist pigs about a month ago. Many lulz were had.
HOW TO ARREST A BITCH: STEP ONE
Approach from the rear as the insanely handsome criminal is walking away. Stick your foot in in the back of his knee, causing him to fall face down on the pavement. Revel in the torrent of muffled abuse that comes forth as darknation eats concrete.
Sit on him to restrain said perp, like the victory hump you give a corpse in Halo multiplayer. Apply handcuffs. Make sure that they are good and tight; if his wrists aren't fucked for the next two weeks then you are doing it wrong.
STEP TWO: ENTER THE PARTY VAN
It is an irony that the police will fuck you for not wearing a seatbelt. And yet, the first thing you will notice upon entering the party van, is that there are no fucking seatbelts.
It is difficult to hang on when you have been handcuffed and hogtied. Expect the party van to lurch wildly on cunted suspension. Expect further damage to your fine facial features as you smash headfirst into the metal bench opposite.
STEP THREE: PROCESSING
They strip searched me. I shit you not. My clothes were confiscated after PC Homo was finished staring at my cock and arsehole. I was presented with my new jail uniform; a pair of blue shorts made out of some weird form of piss-proof kevlar. The t-shirt is a luminous abomination.
Think of the world's worst football kit and you'd not be far off.
STEP FOUR: JAIL
It is cold. You have no socks. There is no sheet on the bed, which is three inches off the concrete floor and bolted to the wall. The mattress is made of weird blue plastic. The urinal has no seat and weird rubber around the rim. Shitting presents a problem.
STEP FIVE: THE CREEPY OLD GUY STARING AT YOU THROUGH THE CATFLAP
There is a creepy old guy who opens the perv-hole in the door once every two hours to make sure you aren't Shawshanking your way out of this dump. The creepy old guy does not speak. The creepy old guy has bug-eyes. He likes to watch you poop.
STEP SIX: GETTING KICKED OUT
There is no breakfast. There is no coffee. Clothes will be returned. Officer Homo has gone home and has been replaced by Officer Acne. Wallet is presented with money intact; this was done with great and serious joviality, the implication being that We, the Police, would not stoop to stealing the money out of your pocket.
And then you get a forty pound fine for being drunk and disorderly and calling the police a bunch of fascist fucking pigs. If you do not pay it within the month then the fine doubles and warrants for arrest will be issued again. Suck the dark cock of justice.
STEP SEVEN: NEED NICOTINE
There is, conveniently, a garage next to the police station. Fags can be bought and smoked in profusion.
STEP EIGHT: TRIUMPHANT RETURN
I am now three hours late for work. I have not washed, my palms of my hands are bloody as fuck from the decking I got upon arrest. I have a million missed calls on my mobile. Pub greets me with the proper amount of respect upon my eventual resumption of bar duties. Cool old dude with a beard, so impressed with my heroism in the face of the anti-lulz, gives me forty quid to pay my fine and buys me a pint.
STEP NINE: REFLECTION ON LESSONS LEARNED
|bored animation||January 23, 2015, 6:31 pm|
yeah. Baby killing simulator.
bored bored bored bored
|epic heroin win.||January 18, 2015, 8:38 pm|
so, I got a job in a pub, which mostly involves me oscillating between beer pumps until someone buys me beer. As jobs go, it could be worse.
Two weeks ago this little European dude walks in and orders half a Guinness. Then he deposits said Guinness on the table and fucks off for a shit in our opulent lavatorium. So far, so good; at least one regular has been banned from shitting in his own house because his ass is so rotten that it makes his wife puke, and so he has to fire his shit down our toilet and hold his butthole to the extractor fan afterwards.
People shit in the toilet is the point I am making here. It is not unusual.
The pub begins to fill up with punters. No one buys me beer, which is fucking irritating. Half an hour later I notice that the half pint of Guinness is still sitting neglected on the table. Not a single fuck was given.
This was the first mistake of the evening. I should have put two and two together at this point. I did not.
Half an hour after that, a big dude with a beard informs me that there is something awry in the toilet. Big dude with beard, another accursed pub-shit doer, cannot enter the cubical to drop a tactical nuke. He has peered beneath cubical door - he has seen someone kneeling unresponsive on the pissy concrete floor, like he is praying to Mecca or some shit.
The landlord gets a screwdriver and removes the lock. Landlord promptly freaks out because this guy looks pretty fucking dead. Living people do not lie in this position. This fucker has ragdolled up against the cubical wall, his neck at a 90 degree angle.
Phone the fucking ambulance.
darknation the pint-puller is suddenly promoted to darknation the corpse-mongler. Our intrepid hero enters the cubical, which is about four-foot square, and ties to check the kneeling body for a pulse. There is a needle still clamped in the body's hand. His hand is freezing cold. His trousers have come down to reveal three-stripe, red-white-yellow boxer shorts. There is vomit, this man has pissed his pants, his last act upon this world was to shit himself. Landlord has phoned for an ambulance and the NHS 24 want to know if this dead dude is breathing. Trying to get to check is a nightmare. His neck is boneless, his head flops about, about a litre of clear liquid has pooled in his mouth and is slithering out like fucking anal lube.
That shit was the grossest part. It fucking got everywhere.
I try to lift him. Impossible, this fucker is a dead weight. His lips are blue. I know I've got to get him out of the cubical and lie him down so I can think about CPR. Then I look at this dead blue bastard and the shit that is coming out of his mouth and I actually hope that he *is* dead so I won't have to pump and french kiss the fucker.
Somehow we get another person into the tiny cubical. Somehow we manage to haul him out of the stall. His trousers fall all the way down as we pull him. Yes, he has definitely shat himself. Yes, this fucker is blue and he is not breathing. No, am I not doing CPR. Fuck that.
Not sure what this post is really meant to be about, but fuck that little European dude for overdosing in my pub toilet and totally ruining my Friday night. What a fucking prick.
|INTERNETS||January 17, 2015, 5:32 am|
|I have some now. Celebrate, for darknation has returned to you.|
|zippers are the work of satan.||April 12, 2014, 6:22 pm|
yeah, so I was drunk the other night and I think I caught my foreskin in my zipper.
It's fucking sore. It looks gross, lightly skinned, still weeping white blood cells. The scab that is forming... well, it's less of a scab, more of a geological formation made of pus, blood and copious pants fluff.
I wish I had worn better coloured pants so the scab would look less like a gangrenous bubo.