Unfortunately, The Upshot Of My Stream-Of-Consciousness Writing Experiment Is That I’m Going To Kill You Next Thursday With A Banana

Really, I’m sorry.

I don’t know quite how it happened. I don’t know why it happened either. But the long and the short of it is that, well, I think this might be the end for you.

You see, I was having some trouble writing this bit of poetry I’d been working on. Don’t judge me: everyone writes poetry to themselves, especially in these lonely and reflective winter months. Anyway, I got a bit stuck, and so I thought I’d try out this stream-of-consciousness thing. You know, where you just write down whatever random thought comes into your head. It could be anything at all. In fact, I have it on rather good authority that it usually just comes out as a stream of unconnected nonsense words. Usually.

I’d never tried it before, but lots of people say that it can really clear up those stubborn writer’s block cooties. Plenty of professionals swear by it. And not just writers, but psychologists too. Apparently it’s a recognised technique for helping people to work through their issues and whatnot. Well, I thought, that can’t be so dangerous, can it? But I’m afraid that, in point of fact, it has turned out to be very dangerous indeed. For you.

Yes, it turns out that I’m going to kill you. Next Thursday. With a banana. Sounds pretty ridiculous, huh? Well, it’s not. It’s deadly serious. Literally. Although of course I would like very much not to kill you, I don’t really see what we can do about it at this point. Especially now that things have been set in motion. You see, try as we might to avoid this terrible fate of yours, it’s probably going to happen anyway. You know very well that I’m not one to get in the way of destiny, and if your destiny is to be encountered at the wrong end of a pointy piece of fruit, well, that’s just rotten luck.

But maybe you should stop thinking quite so much about yourself in all this. I mean, how do you think I feel? I’m the one who has to kill you. I’m the one who will have to clean up the mess afterwards. Perhaps you could spare a thought for me, or is that too much to ask? Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get angry. I know it’s sad and all, but everyone has to go sometime. So you may as well just accept the fact that I’m going to kill you next week. Because I’ve accepted it, and believe me I feel much more relaxed about it now. I have to admit, I was pretty worried at first. Primarily because, no matter how hard I tried, I really couldn’t think of a way in which I could feasibly kill you with only a banana. I mean, it just doesn’t make any sense, does it? Don’t worry though. Because I’ve thought of a way. And it won’t even hurt that much. You see how good I am to you?

You know, we could probably make a real day of it. We could go to the beach together, maybe ride the donkeys or something. Have some ice-cream. We'll have a little get together in the early evening, invite some friends over. Give you a good send-off. As I'm sure you'll remember, I have some mean cocktail recipes in my repertoire. Of course, you won’t have time to try them all.

Still, I don’t want to railroad you into doing anything. It’s only if you’re amenable. I mean, if you already have stuff planned for next Thursday, I wouldn’t want to get in the way. Or at least I don’t want to get in the way until about seven-thirty, when, as we’ve discussed, I kind of have to. Because I’ll be killing you. Sorry about that.

For This Year’s January Sales, I’m Enlisting The Help Of John McClane

“I do this because there is nobody else to do it right now. Believe me if there was somebody else to do it, I would let them do it. There's not, so I'm doing it. That's what makes you that guy."

So says John McClane in Die Hard 4.0, and hopefully he’ll be saying exactly the same ultra-macho kind of thing when he gets stuck into the January sales on my behalf. Yeah, I’ll point you in the direction of the bad guy, John. He’s the one holding that really nice sweater that coincidentally also happens to be the last in my size. Sure, he seems innocuous enough, but trust me he’s a terrorist alright. So you should probably just finish him off, scream yippee-ki-yay at his mangled corpse, and give me that sweater. And don’t you dare get blood on it, McClane, or I’ll have your badge revoked.

Let’s be honest here: January sales are an evil blight upon the face of humanity. They are especially evil when they occur before December is even over. They are crowded, bring out the worst in people, bring out the worst people period. The January sale is an iniquity that quite simply represents the worst of humanity. That is why I have assembled the best of humanity to fight this great evil. John McClane is even now prepared to shop free or die hard. But he is not alone. I have also secured the aid of John Rambo, who I am assured will be more than happy to deal out jungle-themed death to mean old ladies with pointy elbows. Not only that, but Indiana Jones too has confirmed his availability during the immediate post-Christmas period. He has also been informed that those people who take a really long time in the changing room when you need to get in there are actually card-carrying Nazis. Let’s not tell him otherwise.

I am advised that Martin Riggs and Roger Murtaugh will be reprising their buddy-buddy kick-ass roles in Gap stores across the country, dealing predominantly with people who stand around in the store, look vacant, and generally get in the way of decent shoppers like ourselves. Joe Pesci has not been invited to assist. And if these measures are not sufficient, I have also secured similar aid from such automated shopping-security luminaries as the T-800 model terminator, the Cylons, and ED-209. And just so you’re aware, the ED-209’s family-safe mode will most certainly be disengaged. Do not fear, no one on my team will hesitate to strike at screaming children who just can’t get out of the way. In dealing with these and any other pests, lethal force has of course been authorised.

Shoppers, I have tried my best to ensure that your experience will be a pleasant one, free of the dark malevolence of those people who have too many bags and swing them around a lot. But even all that I have done may not be enough. Undoubtedly, the January sale will be the sorest trial Mankind has ever faced. As a species, we may not survive the ordeal. With this in mind, the Waspinator-for-President campaign will be holing itself up in our nuclear-safe bunker until the present shopping crisis is averted. May God have mercy upon us all.

All I Want For Christmas Is Some Ointment For This Suspicious Rash That You Gave Me

I should tell you now that the mention of Christmas in the title up above is absolutely the last time that I will be talking of Christmas in this here blog post. Well, except of course for the two mentions of Christmas in my opening sentence. And the single mention of Christmas in the sentence previous to this one. And also the one mention of Christmas in the again previous sentence. Etc.

I won’t be instantiating the term “Christmas” here (excepting the unfortunately quite unavoidable mentions of Christmas thus far, and also the equally unavoidable uses of Christmas appearing in this very sentence) because, frankly put, talking about Christmas sucks. Specifically, what is annoying about Christmas is the inescapability of it. That’s what I mean by instantiation: when people just repeat the word of the day (in this case, Christmas) incessantly, over and over again, until it just creeps quietly into your consciousness, and you can’t get it out. Like this: Christmas, Christmas, Christmas. See what I mean?

You’re probably thinking that there’s a clever point to be made here, in relation to the unfortunate over-use of the word Christmas from certain quarters, about the reductive qualities of language in general. One might make productive comparison, perhaps, between the current problems with Christmas vocabulary over-exposure and the linguistic straining of Shakespeare’s later tragedies, where certain words are repeated into meaninglessness in order to point to the indescribable nature of the events they purport to describe: for example, Macbeth’s “horror, horror, horror” (ii.iii.62) or King Lear’s “howl, howl, howl, howl” (v.iii.257) and “never, never, never, never, never” (v.ii.308).

But it’s not like that at all, because there’s nothing clever about simply repeating the word Christmas. I’m fed up of Christmas, and not just because of this suspicious rash that you gave me. No, I dislike the fact that people in general just can't seem to stop using the word Christmas in every single sentence. They might as well just stop you in the street and shout the word Christmas right at you, while frenetically waving a large placard with “Christmas” emblazoned on it in a large, bold font. Christmas! Christmas! Christmas! Seriously, there’s nothing more annoying than the constant and unbroken repetition of the word Christmas. Why, you can’t even escape Christmas on a blog post that is deliberately trying not to write about Christmas.

Look, I'm a man of faith. Consistently troubled faith, but faith nonetheless. I would like it if this time of year actually meant something. I would like it if we could use certain words with a modicum of understanding. I would like it if we could use this time to treat each other with compassion, respect, and love. But, apparently, we'd all prefer to buy stuff instead. So, to repeat myself a little, Christmas sucks.

Christmas instantiation count = 31 (including this line and below)
Christmas combo count = 2
Final score = could do better.

You Have Failed Me For The Last Time, Brave Heart Lion

Dear General Cheer Bear,

Hi, Darth Vader here, Lord of the Sith etc. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: what kind of jack-ass puts all the letters after his name? Well, I took the Sith exams, and they were really hard, so you know what? I think I’ve earned the right to use all the titles, okay? When you’ve passed the exams, you can use them too.

So anyway, I just felt like we should touch base about the whole “ruling the galaxy” shebang. Er, look Cheer Bear, I don’t really know how to tell you this, but to be perfectly honest with you, I’ve kind of been thinking about bringing my son in on the ruling the galaxy deal. Make a real family business out of it, you know? Sure, he kind of blew in from nowhere. And I’m the first to admit that he’s a little “homespun”; and yes, it can be a bit embarrassing to tell you the truth. Take the other day for example. There I was, just sitting down to a nice civilised evening meal (with the Emperor, no less!), and old farm boy waltzes in covered in grease and banging on about power converters. I’ll give him power converters.

Still, I’ve searched my feelings over this one for quite a while, Cheer Bear, and no matter what, he is my son. So basically, and this is the tough bottom line, Luke’s in and you’re out. I don’t really like it any more than you do, but what’s a dad supposed to do? And it’s not like I’ve heard much from you recently anyway. You know very well that you were supposed to send me an update on your black ops super-bear breeding program on the forest moon of Endor, like a month ago. What, you think I just won’t notice that the report’s not in my in-tray? Dark Lord of the Sith, Cheer Bear, Dark Lord of the Sith. I may not be freaking Yoda, but you still have to get up pretty early in the morning to pull that kind of stunt on me, missy.

And don’t even get me started on your “Empire Cheer Bear Chant”. Yeah, okay, so the Stormtroopers like it, but I’ve got to tell you that certain people in high places aren’t quite so keen. Just FYI, General. I mean, let’s just take a little example, shall we? How about this gem: your lines “The Death Star’s Super-Laser / Is super because of friendship.” That’s not only technically untrue, Cheer Bear, but it also pretty much gives away our biggest military secret to anyone who’s listening. I mean, seriously, what in the world were you thinking? We’ve only been keeping the thing under wraps for like twenty years. You know how much work it takes to keep the existence of a moon-sized battle-station secret from the Rebellion? Because it takes a lot of work. A lot. But oh no, you just give the whole game away, don’t you? And the Stormtroopers have been singing about it everywhere, Cheer Bear. Everywhere.

Anyway, that’s fine, we can cope with that. What I really take issue with, however, are the lines “Lord Vader loves you all / From the very big to the very small.” Now just look here. Okay, I’m the first to admit that I do have a certain soft spot for very big things. AT-AT’s. The Death Star. My Super Star Destroyer. The Dark Side of the Force. But I think anyone will tell you that very small things are kind of beneath my notice. I mean, really, Cheer Bear, did you not do any research for this thing at all?

I didn’t have to promote you to the rank of General, you know. Believe me, I’ve seen right-hand men come and go. I’m sure you remember the terrible and unfortunate accident involving your cousin, Admiral Brave Heart Lion. So maybe you should just accept my decision on this one. General Cheer Bear, I’m calling off our power-sharing agreement. You can just go back to the forest of friendship or wherever it was I found you. It’s over, Cheer Bear. Over.

Yours Faithfully,

Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, ACMA

This Eighties Referencing Lark Might Be Getting A Bit Much, Man-E-Faces

I know some people that watch shows like Family Guy or Robot Chicken and say “Wow, that’s probably too many references to the eighties for my liking.”

Well, I’m forced to admit that those people, fools though they obviously are, might just have something approaching a good point. There is probably life that exists outside of making punning references to Cobra Commander. Not life as we know it or would like it, of course, but life just the same. There may be things to talk about besides Man-E-Faces’ horrible, horrible schizophrenia (which so wasn’t suitable for a kids' show); and there may be more important things to discuss than the Sword of Omens’ unusually phallic qualities. But man, that sword really is so phallic. It starts off small, then Lion-O whips it out and shouts “Thunder…Thunder…Thundercats” until it gets way bigger, and can do all kinds of crazy stuff. Not convinced? Check out these screen grabs:

Got erectile problems? Why not shout “Thundercats Hoooo” to yourself, while relaxing on the forest floor?

Unless of course your “sword” is already covered in suspicious looking goop. Then it probably won’t work.

Yeah, it’s definitely phallic. And that's the last time I include Thundercats screen captures, promise. Anywho, as I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, some people are of the opinion that there may be important things to talk about in and regards the world other than, for example, references to cartoon shows. These people, I believe, are the sort of people who would most definitely not like what we are doing here at the Waspinator-for-President campaign headquarters. We do not deny that there are almost certainly a whole host of very important subjects out there, and that these are also subjects of discussion which could and should probably be addressed. Oh yes, they’re there all right; we just don’t feel much like talking about them. What Waspinator-for-President is all about, in fact, is something that the kind of people who require actual relevance or meaningfulness in their internet reading material will never understand.

Such people, I repeat, will neither “get” me nor the larger Waspinator-for-President electoral commission. They might ask, for example, such questions as: how can I possibly continue to write a blog about absolutely nothing? With no relevance to anything whatsoever? Shouldn’t I have a subject? A theme? Perhaps I should be writing about my own life? Shouldn’t I at least glance upon relationships, friendships, hobbies, travel, study, work; or in short, anything of the daily business of living?

All these questions and more have literally been flowing through my inbox, except in as much as they haven’t. But I imagine that these are nonetheless the sorts of questions that people would have asked, or will ask themselves, upon dipping into the world of Waspinator-for-President. Why am I writing about meaningless nonsense, they will ask, when there must surely be more important things to talk about? Well, just suck it up, because this is as important as it gets. What Waspinator-for-President is all about is the serious production of exactly that meaningless nonsense you decry. Day by day, we will slowly but unstoppably build up a veritable mountain of totally unimportant drivel. That, dear reader, is our glorious mission. And more than that, it is Waspinator-for-President’s election promise to all you fleshy-bots out there.

Let me break this down for you, manifesto style. This blog will never pause to reflect on important global issues, nor any form of current affairs, except where so doing would allow for either a reference to an eighties cartoon or a pun on some sort of sexual taboo or bete noire bodily function. It will never attempt to offer any kind of personal or professional advice, except where that advice is so monumentally obvious or otherwise redundant that to offer it is entirely without use or point. It will never comment on the life of its writer or the lives of that writer’s friends, except where these lives could be compared to an unpopular MB board game or perhaps a cancelled sitcom in a way that is entirely unprofitable and without merit of any sort. It is the Nothing and Beingness to Sartre’s Being and Nothingness. In short, this blog will always be about nothing whatsoever, but in an endless variety of different (but also mind-numbingly similar) ways.

But wait, I think I hear you say, just hang on there a cotton-picking, hot-diggity-dog moment! Doesn’t this very blog entry count as an entry about something, even if that something is the rather imprecise definition of what it is not? Well, in a word: no. No, it most definitely does not count. Smartypants.

“Johnson! Have You Seen My Copy Of Knight Rider 2000? Because I’m Pretty Sure I Left It At Your House, Right After Our Homosexual Tryst.”

You see, dearest readers, what I did there in that little title was to cleverly suggest, in a roundabout sort of a way, that people who own a DVD copy of Knight Rider 2000 might – just might – be gay.

Not that (in the words of those people who repeat Seinfeld catchphrases long years after such phrases ceased to be culturally relevant in any way) there’s anything wrong with that. No indeed. Some of my best friends are gay. Well, not friends exactly, but people I know. Yeah, some people I know are probably homosexual. Well maybe not people I know per se, not acquaintances as such, but I definitely have heard of people who are gay, and I’ve probably sat on the next table to some in a restaurant or something. I mean, not close enough for it to have been weird, but close enough that I’m definitely not homophobic. Because, you know, I read somewhere that people who hate the gays might just be gay themselves. Like it’s a sign of some deep-seated psychological thing that you haven’t addressed or something. And that’s not me. No, if hating gays means that you are gay yourself, well, then I am practically the opposite of that. And in this case, that means that I love men who also love men with a furious passion the like of which has not previously been seen in this world. But, and I can't be clear enough about this, not in a gay way.

Ah, I’m just kidding with you. I don’t really have all the latent hate issues which that last paragraph suggested I did. It’s all just a bit of edgy fun you understand. And you know, I like to go through these little comic routines with you. Sometimes I also do them in front of a mirror. Sometimes I do them in front of a mirror naked. Sometimes, just sometimes, I do the routines in front of a mirror naked and videotape it, then send the video to interested parties. If you too would like to see my naked comedy video, you can always request one from me by email.

But I won’t respond, because, guess what? That last paragraph was also just a joke! I don’t really do naked comedy routines in front of a mirror and then record it. I don’t do that at all. In fact, I never have done! I’ve never even thought about it until just now! How about that? No, I just said that I did because I thought that videotaping a “naked comedy routine” would be the kind of funny thing that a crazily funny guy like myself would do, and then blog about to all the wonderful people on this wonderful internet. I even had a punch-line to the whole extended diatribe all ready. I won’t go into details, but it involved some exceedingly clever word-play around the phrase “stand-up comedy”.

I didn’t finish the joke though, because, guess what? I wasn’t really joking! I am, in point of fact, actually sitting in front of a mirror right now, writing this very paragraph, with nothing between me and the wide world but a flimsy pair of rubber gloves. Don’t worry though, it’s not weird, because I’ve got a repeat of an Ally McBeal episode on in the background. So it’s not like I’m alone or anything odd like that. And it’s not one of the episodes with the imaginary dancing baby either. I’m not even sure which episode it is, come to think of it, but I’m really hoping it features that African American lady with the obscenely large bust. Seriously, dude, that under-wire must be made from the same stuff as Captain America’s shield. And by that, I don’t mean that it’s made of an experimental vibranium-adamantium alloy. I mean that it is made of patriotism, courage, and the American Dream.

But wait! Because actually, I was just kidding with you yet again! I’m not really naked. And that’s not all! I'm not watching Ally McBeal! I don’t think I ever have! Can you imagine? That’s how crazy funny I can be, that I would just make up stuff that’s not even the slightest bit true!

You know what? I’m going to stop this right now. People who lie about themselves for comic effect suck big-time. Yeah, you know who you are, Jerry Seinfeld. I don’t think you’re a bee at all.

Bestiality Is Everywhere You Look, So Long As “Where You Look” Is The American Midwest

Bestiality is “literally” all over the internet. I’m not going to provide a link to it. You know where it is. I know where it is. Let’s not talk about it.

Instead, in today’s journey into the greyish unknown, I’d like to provide an antidote to all that animal action you’ve undoubtedly been watching recently. I’d like to provide a higher moral alternative to your despicable, depraved downloads. Think of me as Jaga to your Lion-O. Not that the noble Lord of the Thundercats would have ever been involved in the sort of farmyard filth to which you subscribe. I’ll bet that you even got excited by the word “Thundercat” in that last sentence, didn’t you? You make me sick.

Well, while you’ve almost certainly been gorging yourself on disgusting, if delectable, picture sets of circus clowns and hippopotami, I have been thinking of ways in which I can restore your poor beleaguered soul. So put down that pig while I save your bacon.

What you need, beef-eater, is my patented ten-point plan. Follow it to the letter, and you too can avoid the firey fires of eternal damnation. Now, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. Let’s be honest, creeping into your neighbour’s barn in the middle of the night is going to be a pretty tough habit to break. Unlike those hen eggs, which you broke pretty easily, didn’t you, you vile but perfectly understandable pervert? Well don’t worry, because my ten-point plan is your roadmap to a new, non-lamb-liking life.

Yes, there will be temptations along the way. Those dirty dolphins at your local zoo are particularly delicious, so you should probably just try to avoid both them and their obviously titillating “jumping through a flaming ring” routine. While you’re at it, you should probably go ahead and stop watching those teasing chimps masticating on their big floppy bananas. Don’t get me wrong, I know what you’re thinking when you look at those chimpanzees with their bananas. But you shouldn’t think it. Because it’s wrong.

Sure, we’d all like to know what a half-man, half-chimp baby would look like, but the best way to go about finding that out is probably via some under-the-radar testing at a remote South American “medical facility” run by Nazi war criminal scientists. Let me be clear: though you are indeed rampantly and repugnantly noxious in your strange predilections, you are not a Nazi war criminal. Moreover, charging through the “Crazy Monkeys!” enclosure like the bull-elephant you bedded last Tuesday does not count as legitimate medical research. It does not even count as illegitimate medical research. People like you really get my goat, and frankly, my goat has had enough of you.

Let’s face it, you’re an inveterate lover of the animal form. So was Stubbs, but he expressed that love by painting horses predominantly with oil on canvas, and not on the whole with his bodily fluids. The way you do it is bad and wrong. Very, very wrong. To be honest, there is little hope for someone like you. But purchase my reasonably-priced ten point plan, and you might just find the light. Send the money in the post, and while you’re at it, you should also include all those abominable pictures you’ve taken, just so you won’t be tempted by them any more.

Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they’re properly disposed of.

Why I Believe Lion-O Is Making Up That Whole Sight-Beyond-Sight Business; And Other Shocking Revelations

I give unto you the evidence, and let every man judge for himself. Here is my dread charge: I suspect, my friends, that Lion-O, Lord of the Thundercats, Guardian of the Sword of Omens and the Eye of Thundera, is totally making up his abilities in the “sight-beyond-sight” department. Maybe he’s not culpable. Maybe the other Thundercats forced him into it. Whatever the case, just take a look at the following screen captures, and you’ll soon be just as convinced as I am.

The captures in question are from the early episode entitled “The Unholy Alliance”. And yes, to answer your unasked question, I could have provided a video of this; and again yes, it would have been much easier to understand what the hell is going on had I done so. But the lack of Thundercats videos anywhere else on the net would seem to suggest one of two things. Either no one cares about putting Thundercats online, which seems entirely reasonable, but given the level of tat already available also somewhat unlikely; or, given the recent release of prodigiously expensive Thundercats DVDs, someone somewhere is keeping a close eye on copyright issues. I’m not going to be the one who has to explain how proving that Lion-O is a liar counts as “fair use”, but I might just get away with some crafty screen-grabs.

Anyway. In the episode under discussion, Lion-O is off exploring in the woods, and has just been roundly told off by Jaga (his ghostly mentor-figure) for something or other fairly unimportant. To be honest, Lion-O gets told off by Jaga every other episode - so many times, in fact, that one wonders why Lion-O hasn’t tried putting the dead guy out of his misery once and for all (Jaga: 'The Sword of Omens cannot be used for evil, Lion-O'. Lion-O: 'Well, lucky for me that euthanasia is no longer considered evil, depending on the circumstances'). So anywho, Jaga finishes off his uplifting moral teaching for the episode, leaving a chastened Lord Thundercat to consider the wise words proffered. But then, suddenly, the Sword of Omens senses danger…

In the above photo, the Sword of Omens senses danger! You can tell, because it goes all neon. Lion-O had better use his sight-beyond-sight power to find out what’s going down. See below.

You can see above how, in order to use the sight-beyond sight power, Lion-O carefully gazes through the special holes made by the hilt of the sword. The sword lets him see the nature of the danger, no matter where it might be on Third Earth. See below.

Look above, and you can see the nature of the danger which the sword shows unto Lion-O. Oh no! It’s the evil mutants: Slythe, Jackalman and Monkeon! They’re the archenemies of the Thundercats, and are undoubtedly up to something nefarious! But where on Third Earth could they be? Thank goodness I have this sight-beyond-sight thing that can show me the enemy, no matter where they are! See below.

Oh, there they are, Lion-O. Right in front of you.

Let me just re-state what seems to have happened here. Lion-O has held up his sword, peeked through the holes, and seen the mutants standing directly opposite him. Somehow, he has then inferred that just because he can see someone not two feet away, he must have access to some sort of magic power. Well, I for one am not convinced. This is not sight-beyond-sight, Lord Lion-O. It’s just plain old sight.

I’ve Personalized My Monopoly Board, And Unilaterally Decided That Old Kent Road Will Now Be Represented By Your Fat Momma

Of course, that joke in my title above only works if you first understand that Old Kent Road is the very worst property on the Monopoly board, at least if you have the English version. In the American (Atlantic City) version, I think it has traditionally been known as the rather more exotic sounding “Mediterranean Avenue”. In the Japanese version, I believe it’s known as “China”. Really, all you need to know in order to properly understand what I’m trying to say in relation to your fat momma, is that the comparison between your fat momma and the property on the Monopoly board is not a flattering one.

The joke also only makes sense (and maybe not even then) if you first appreciate that there is a clear and present danger going on in the world around us, and that danger is the global threat of personalized-Monopoly-madness, a sickening and corrupt virus that is infecting more and more people every year. The virus presents itself in two main strains: the worrying, but perhaps not fatal, “localized” Monopoly; and the horrifying self-referentialism of the true, full-blown, “personalized” Monopoly strain.


Threat One: The Local Monopoly Set

There are a lot of “localized” sets of Monopoly out there. One kind revolves around themed sets: Simpsons Monopoly (Homer comes second place in a donut-eating competition!), Spiderman Monopoly (Dr Octopus tosses you back three spaces!), Doogie Howser, M.D. Monopoly (Doogie learns a life lesson while passing Go!). Of course, these examples are not true types of the “localization” trend, so much as they are evidence of the equally crass proliferation of a very small section of proven entertainment across a wide, but ultimately entirely inappropriate, variety of media.

In true localization Monopoly, the idea is that the main points of interest on the game board – properties, utilities, stations (railroads), and maybe even the Chance and Community Chest cards – are replaced by versions of the same which, and this is the important part, refer to your home town. The game rules are the same. The order of play is the same. Let us be clear: the differences in the theme of the board make absolutely no impact on the outcome. In every respect that matters, this is exactly the same set of Monopoly as the one your daddy (but not necessarily the same daddy who hangs around with your fat momma) bought for you one disappointing Christmas, many years ago. Except that in the local version of Monopoly, when you land on Mayfair (American version: Boardwalk. Japanese version: clearly underage anime girl with both male and female sexual organs), you don’t land on Mayfair, you land on the nicest street in your home town!

Oh my, I don’t think I can take the excitement! Instead of moving my little-dog playing counter onto a square going by the name of a street which has national cultural relevance, I’ve instead moved my little-dog playing counter onto the exact same square going by the name of an entirely different street, the relevance of which will only be understood by other people living in my home town! Totally sweet, dude!


Threat Two: The Personal Monopoly Set

Many versions of the local Monopoly set exist. If we are feeling charitable, we might say that, in a sense, they are merely extensions of the process which saw Waddington’s create a London-specific board from Parker Brothers’ American version. They are merely harbingers of the true threat. The threat to civilisation, and decent-minded clean-living the world over, known as the Personalized Monopoly game.

In this version, players create a game for themselves based entirely on random things that they find interesting. They rename the properties, and come up with amusing themed events for the cards, based around a subject of their choice. The sky might literally be the limit! As brief example, here are some personalized Monopolies of which I have heard: Communist Monopoly (woah, the irony!); Ghettopoly (careful, now!); Archaeologist Monopoly (buy the British Museum, while wearing an Indiana Jones style hat!); Accountancy Monopoly (it’s capitalism, but with balance sheets!). The self-absorbed, self-indulgent, and entirely trivial fun is absolutely endless!

At Hasbro’s mymonopoly.com, you can really get down to personalized Monopoly business. Here’s a random quote: “This is your opportunity to name properties after your best friends, your favourite holidays, in fact almost anything you like!” Well, at least I know what I’m really going to put on my own personalized Old Kent Road square: a little picture of a personalized Monopoly set. And on that picture of a personalized Monopoly set, the Old Kent Road square will also be a picture of a personalized Monopoly set.

Despite all that talk we hear nowadays about personal freedom and what-have-you, it turns out that too much individualism is, if not exactly a bad idea, then certainly an endlessly tiresome one. All of which goes some way towards explaining the particular, but entirely untrue, way in which I insulted your fat momma in my title. Of course, it should also be noted that some people really seem to like Old Kent Road, and even go out of their way to try to buy the property.

But then, some people probably like to buy your fat momma too.

(Up To) 10 Reasons Why Waspinator Would Make A Better President Than Almost Anyone Else I Can Think Of

In case you're wondering, Waspinator was a fictional (sorry kids!) character in the quite wonderful little-glowing-box series Beast Wars: Transformers. He also featured in the (arguably slightly less wonderful) follow-up series Beast Machines: Transformers. He is also set to guest in the new incarnation, Transformers Animated.

There are several interconnected conclusions that we can draw from Waspinator’s recurring animated life:

1. the approval rating of an incompetent but amusing Predacon is higher than practically any leader of the free world; previous, present, or currently in-waiting.

2. there are some aspects of the Transformers that even Michael Bay can't ruin/ put a random hot girl next to for no seemly reason/ give faux-ghetto dialogue to/ transform into grubby dollar bills to pay the strippers he's undoubtedly going to put in the sequel whether you like it or not/ make it seem like it's going to be your childhood all over again, and then it is your childhood again, but with Michael Bay.

3. Transformers Animated is still called Transformers Animated despite the fact that every preceding Transformers series has also been animated; but it will still almost certainly outdistance Michael-Bay-TM-product in the exact same amount of quality, contentment and satisfaction as would dating Evangeline Lilly outdistance dating your mom.

4. Waspinator is cool.


None of which really explains the point of this here web-log. I guess that's just going to have to be a story for another day.