CatSpace

It has come to my attention that one sex is more arrogant than the other. Now, despite the previous three years of evidence otherwise, blanket statements are not my trade. Despite this, women think they are the shit. Even my own massive arrogance can't average out the size of the average womans coconut. Their heads are just fucking huge and they think they are the shit.

I don't know why.

They lose fights against men, they call teddies Muhammad (the ignorant dicks), they can't cross a football and they feed their children turkey twizzlers.

In fact, I often struggle to think of any way in which a woman has significantly advanced the human race in a way that a man could not equally have done. It is the same on both sides of the coin. It is silly because a man and a woman can do the same things except for physical stuff which isn't fair because, as every woman will tell you, dealing with the pain of childbirth more than makes up for the combined awesomeness that comes with being able to take punches to the balls, being able to punch goats and working on oil rigs. It's bullshit, because the only women that ever go on about the 'pain of childbirth' have never given birth, but I digress.

My point is that a man and the woman are the same. We can think the same and we can do the same (unless you want something from the top shelf of Sainsburys), yet women take some kind of arrogant stance that we should do stuff for them.

This is the same attitude of the white man in Africa. He felt that the black man was inferior, which is anything but the case if the Olympics are to be believed. He therefore felt that the Black man should do all the rubbish stuff and work hard to enable the White man to have a good life. Women do the same. They are blackmailers and bullshitters and romanticists. They believe that men should buy flowers and dinner, yet they never return the favour. They believe that man should carry her home when her retarded high-heels have given her blisters, but she is never willing to carry you home after you have suffered a Dave Rimmer two-footed tackle. They believe that you should cook all the time. They believe that you should pay rent. They believe that you should sit through X-Factor but feel they should not be forced to enjoy Match of the Day.

The arrogant attitude of the woman must stop.

Then I will be able to like them again.

I still fancy, them, like. I just don't like them right now.

Statcatx

There are three things that are totally maximum gay in this world; Elton John, Elton Johns wardrobe, and vomit-inducing couples. Everyone knows the type I mean. The sickly-sweet combination of two vaguely attractive but fairly bland people, happy to have each other because they deserve no worse but can do no better. They swoon. They go on dinner dates. They hold hands. They don't laugh when squirrels get hit by cars. They look at each other with shiny eyes in the dusk and when they kiss the fireworks explode in the sky. They are scourge.

This is why they are totally maximum gay.

First, they're obviously both gay. If you're straight you don't need to sellotape your hand to hers to prove it. People know you're straight because you eat raw meat, drink whiskey with your eyes, and Graeme Souness is your favorite footballer. Put yourselves in the gay shoes for a moment; if you're a nine bob note but you don't want anyone to know, what would YOU do? Would you prance around in ballet shoes and a tutu singing Edelweiss or would you shoot some terrorists in the face whilst holding onto some woman with both hands and your dick? Personally I'd do the latter, but I'm glad I don't have to because it sounds like a recipe for disaster, certain death, or both.

Second, they used to be someone's friend before they started going out with each other. I aim this at the guy more than the girl; girls don't have friends. That's right, that gay guy you see swanning about with his girlfriend all the time, he probably used to drink Jeckylls Gold in the Friendship and watch the cricket. Now he likes listening to Travis and growing flowers to put in her hair, and every pub conversation about Chelsea's back four, hunting rifles or circus freaks has to contain a reference to her. Thus, nobody wants to be his friend and everyone wants to shun him. Which, he believes, is fine, because he gets to spend more time with Mrs. Perfect. He becomes, in record time, a dismal human being.

Thirdly, they think they are ace. This is clearly absurd because I'm the only ace person, but even overlooking that for a moment, they are actually even worse than the rest of the cattle, not better. They contribute nothing to society, preferring instead to live in a little love bubble that doesn't pay tax or national insurance and contributes nothing to the wider cultural fabric of today. To be more curt, they're shit. They sit there on their park bench surrounded by bunnies and chocolates getting in the way of the rest of us getting on with our simple lives of meat, sex and football. The way God intended man to be was to be running around a muddy field kicking seven shades of shit of each other. That's why he invented mud, feet, and shinpads. He invented women to provide half time snacks and post match entertainment, and also to weed out the pussies and take them into monogamous sexual relationships so that they may be removed from the gene pool. Charles Darwin would have backed my research.

Lastly, they make Facebook the most inane website in the world. I am yet to discover a way of stopping any message containing more than two xs in a row from reaching my eyes, and believe me, I've tried. There is nothing more retarded and lame than a public show of affection as cliched and as weak as writing "I cant wait 2 c u princess b mine forever xxxxxxxx" on a girls wall. I prefer to write thinly veiled threats of violence aimed at other suitors on girls walls, but they tend to disappear rather quickly, imploding under the weight of their own awesomeness having served their purpose but before the girl gets a chance to read them. Thus, I have the image of the saint, the just warrior who can save you from a burning tower by descending your hair, but just doesn't want to because he's just too awesome. Instead of saving princesses, I'm barbecuing prawns on my 200 foot yacht in the Mediterranean whilst fighting crime. I prefer things this way.

To solve this problem, all couples should be locked up, forever. That simple. They are only of use to each other, so put them in a cell and forget they ever existed. How simple!

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dotcat

So I was minding my own business messaging random residents of LA over MySpace to find out about the city. All hot chicks. I got messaging a few. They all seemed very nice.

But then I realised I had messed up my search filters and had wasted three hours talking exclusively to lesbians :(

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dotcat

Today I was bored on the way to town because there was nobody with me and the new Smashing Pumpkins record I was listening to is shit. The most unpleasant part of my journey to the shops in town actually takes place when I'm already there. It's the part where you have to dodge between the Primark-suited cunts who want to steal your compensation money for when you tripped over your own shoelaces at work. I thus conducted an experiment. I would walk one way past them with my iPod in, suffering Billy Corgans nasal rants about things nobody has cared about since 1992, and back again exposing my ears.

The journey to the shops passed incident free. In fact, one or two of the even fixed my gaze, clocked that I was listening to something, and passed me by, accosting another innocent shopper. Being in a great mood, I bought a really summery floral shirt, a bright, loud new-ravey t-shirt (NOTE: PREVIOUS POST ABOUT NEW RAVE STILL STANDS) and some cammo shorts than, in hindsight, probably belong on a member of Right Said Fred, but I didn't have a girl with me so two out of three 'aint bad.

So, bravely lowering my headphones like an astronaut lowering his visor after a space mission, I ventured into the unknown terrors of street salespeople.

Immediately I was approached by a dick trying to sell me a colouring book to raise money for children with no legs. I briefly considered handing this sap my money, before the stench of weed hit me. Either this guy was high to escape the mental scars that come from working with such children, or he was simply going to spend my money on more green. On I went.

The next candidate was suited and booted, probably by George at Asda. "Hello sir, how are you today?" "You don't care", was my reply. Honest to god. I was so proud. Sheepishly, he asked me "Would you be interested in instant credit at only 35% APR?". The use of the word 'only' is highly inappropriate in this case, but I was still in a good mood, dreaming of looking awesome in my flowery shirt and scoring from 40 yards in Los Angeles, so I let it slide with a subtle "No thankyou" and walked on.

A short distance on, some greasy hobo chick came up to me and waved her dreads in my face. "Would you please sign my petition, mate?". Thinking better of pointing out that I am not her mate, nor am I mates with anyone totally incapable of washing, cutting, combing, straightening or even noticing their hair, I ask her what it is about. "Animals. Global Warming. Bypass. Kyoto Agreement. Gay Rights. Free contraception. Free Satpal Ram. Honour Che Guevara. Animals. Fox hunting. Fur. Animals. Animals. Global Warming. Bypass. Animals." was her reply. Or something to that effect. Fighting an urge to kick her in the kidney and drag her to a shower, I strained out a polite refusal and was on my way.

Around twenty five millimeters later, I was approached again. This time, the guy wanted to know if I would take part in his consumer survey. I am a reluctant consumer. You may have got the impression from my comments about flowery shirts and Right Said Fred and hobo hair that I've suddenly turned gay; far from it. I am still the corporation-hating, anti-effeminate, supposedly socialist, politically confused liar that you've come to know and love. Therefore, I have little time for consumer surveys. I don't have any opinions on adverts because I pay no attention to them. I don't know what my favorite brand of Cola is because I buy the cheapest. I don't know who my favorite celebrity is because I think they are all cunts. Barely grunting at this guy, I trudge on.

Sir!

Oh shit.

Free sample of our new organic juice drink!

Oh, right, thats ace, thanks peon. The drink was actually nice. However, as I drank it, I had a horrible sense of forboding. If New Street on this day was a hurricane, I was in the eye, and about to emerge into a sea of...

"Excuse me, sir. Have you have a trip or fall at work in the past two..."

A swift punch to the teeth rendered him incapable of completing this most evil of sentences. He reeled back, shocked, as I went on the attack, a roundhouse kick worthy of Chuck Norris sending him careering through the window of HSBC. Having made an example of this enemy of mankind, a number of cheap suits fled my wrath, finding a Starbucks coffee infinitely preferable to Mortal Kombat against an angry anti-capitalist badass with gay shorts, and flowery shirt and an iPod in my pocket. I stood, bowed to my captive audience, and made my way to my train.

So, the lesson to be learnt here is that, if you do not have the awesome ninja skills of someone like me, then you should wear your iPod if alone and walking down the high streets of a major town during the day. You will save yourself a lot of bother.

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dotcat

Today I was interviewed by myself. Here's the transcript.

Hi Statcat.
Hi.
How are you today?
I'm very well thankyou. Keeping shipshape in the summer and all.
That's wonderful. What's your favourite dinosaur?
I'm partial to a bit of Stegosaurus myself. Can't be messing with those spines on its back.
They are plates.
No they are not, they are bony bits coming out of its spine. Hence 'spines'.
You may have a point.
Of course I have a fucking point. Who the fuck are you?.
I'm you.
Oh shit.
Yeah now STFU.
WHAT Nobody can tell me to STFU.
Not even yourself?
That's often the problem.
So it is. What's your favourite obscure country?
Estonia.
More obscure.
Abkhazia.
What the fuck is that?
It's a de-facto republic that was formerly part of Georgia but is yet to gain official independance.
It's not a country then you cunt. Another.
Oh shit. Okay. Transnistria
Are you taking the piss our of me?
No, erm. Nagorno-Karabakh.
One more de-facto republic and I'll blow your fucking brains out with this banana.
Have it your way. Kiribati.
What goes on there?
They used to mine phosphorus but now they only sell fish and dried out coconuts.
That's a bit shit then. If you had a coconut, and in a box was a mystery foodstuff, would you stick or twist?
I'd definitely stick.
Your logic being...
A coconut offers both food and drink whereas what you get out of the box will probably just be food. Or, knowing my luck, baked fucking beans.
Would you rather die or eat baked beans forever?
Let's not embrace such grim prospects please.
As you wish Sir Statcat.
My turn to ask you some questions now, Statcat.
Fire away.
Oranges or lemons?
In what context?
War.
Definitely lemons because you eat them because you have to get nutrition but if the enemy captures them they will think "oh shit, lemons" and throw them away
How the fuck do you work that out?
When you pillage a village you don't find lemons and think ohh, foodstuffs, you go around and look for the good stuff like the bottles of coke and the steaks.
Of course. How silly of me. Aside from lemons, what food is most use in a war?
Definitely a chocolate cake with lots of food colouring in it.
???
You get the energy of the chocolate and the taste of the cake and then you go hyper from the colouring.
You are a bizzare person.
Look who's talking.
What made you smile the most today?
What someone did to the uni football website.
You smiled at that?!
The sweet taste of infamy, my friend, is more addictive than an alcoholic game of naked Tetris against page three girls.
I can't say I've ever sampled that.
Neither have I.
One final question before I leave you for this evening.
No.

As you can see, we ran out of time. Well, what actually happened is that I came to the front of the queue at Subway and had to decide what type of bread I wanted. I don't know how long I had been waiting there but the server seemed impatient.

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dotcat

I hate it when people drag stuff out to be longer than what you need to be. You should just be curt and not very courteous if you want to get the job done. Thus, today I merely present a list of things that can fuck off.

Parma Violets
Championship Manager
My Cat
Rain at night
People who put their false teeth in a glass of water by their bedside
People who are fit but ginger
Girls with one breast bigger than the other
Bedside tables
Lying, cheating 24 hour deodorant
Print cartridges
Printers
The concept of printing
Faux-intellectual bullshit in The Times
Faux-middle class ramblings in The Mirror
The Sun
Lollipop sticks that are made out of rolled up paper
Extra virgin olive oil
Supermarkets extra healthy ranges
Mr Motivator
Maddie McCann
The Arctic Monkeys
Posh cunts at Glastonbury
Regina Spector
The Vagina Monologues
Feminists
Football pundits
Cold hot water bottles
"Free" porn websites
When you fancy someone you've never met over Facebook

and last but not by any stretch of the imagination, least;

Chris Benoit

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dotcat

Well, what a clusterfuck of a tennis match I just watched. Everyone was living up to their stereotypes. Carlos Moya was a greasy long haired Spaniard with a crap tattoo and no temperament, whereas Tim Henman had bad teeth and no bollocks. Not even a pea or a peanut or owt. Not a speck of testicular tissue hangs betwixt his pins, and it's a fucking disgrace. I don't want to associate myself with losers such as him, unless they are on the receiving end of one of my bossings.

Now you see, the problem with Tim is that he can't handle the pressure. When the cooker is on he escapes the kitchen to be with his minging wife. He buckles under public expectation and goodwill, and continues to be a national joke in the eyes of anyone with eyes and a brain cell. Not the newts who shout "Come on Tim!!!!" then. This is how I would beat Tim Henman at tennis.

First, I would set the scene by playing him in a Wimbledon semi-final, and the winner gets to play a seven year old with downs syndrome for the title and the paycheck. This is undoubtedly Tims best chance to win at SW19, and thus the public are ravenous at the bit for him to triumph. He is, therefore, pooing his pants before he even wakes up on his big day. After fighting his way through all the shit he gets to Wimbledon and enters his dressing room. There, stood naked in the middle, is me. I fix his gaze and say "Welcome to hell, Tim. Today you will become an object of public ridicule, and I will be the triumphant one." I would then spank his arse and walk to my changing room. Now he is not only in fear of the public expectation, but possibly me, and he is also scared of me because he thinks I'm gay and fancy him. I'm just that good looking.

Tim would double fault his first twelve serves and I would ace my first twelve, giving me the set despite only hitting the ball 12 times. This is the only time in tennis history this minimum, equivalent to 36 off an over and a no-hitter, has been achieved. One set to love.

Tim would then rocket into a second set lead, and take it easily, 6-2. The third would be 6-1 to Tim, and he'd put his foot down in the fourth. Then however, he would hit trouble, as he came face to face face with his number one nemesis. Victory.

Tim doesn't like to win. In 98, 99, 01 and 02, he reached the semi-final only to bottle it, most notably to Goran Ivanisevic, a seventy-two year old washed up Croatian West Brom fan. And lo, he would start double faulting and conceding aces again. I'd win the fourth and get to 6-6 in the fifth.

Then the real pantomime would begin. Tim would cane me until he got a match point, when he would inexplicably bottle it. The most English of traits for the most English of sportsmen. He would throw away seven match points and I'd take my first. In the final I would let the downer win to prove that I have a big heart and I would disappear into the night and snort cocaine of a prostitutes leg with my footballer friend, Adrian.

This country is full of losers, perhaps none more comical than Robert Scott, the woefully unequipped and untrained Antarctic explorer who lost a race to the south pole against Roald Amundsen in 1912 before dying of low morale, aged 44, on the way home. The goat took heavy snowmobiles and took rock samples. what a great way to slow oneself down. The Norwegians just used dogs to pull them and didn't weigh themselves down with stones. They got to the pole, returned home to their wives and kids and drank voddy with their mates, whilst Scott was in a tent in the Arctic somewhere writing his famous last words in his diary. Only a pussy writes a diary. If he hadn't he'd still be alive. He wrote;

Had we lived I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale...We shall stick it out to the end, but we are getting weaker of course and the end cannot be far. It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more. For God's sake, look after our people.

I feel no empathy for this cockbeaver. Neither endurance nor courage end in death, and stories of dying do not stir my heart in the slightest. The rough notes do indeed tell the tale, a tragic one of incompetance and failure which led your bodies to be dead. Your next sentence was correct. You indeed died in the immediate aftermath. Trust me, it's not a pity that you wrote no more self-piteous waste-of-paper trash. It's a blessing in disguise. God doesn't exist, and your people should not be a tax burden on me because you are irresponsible enough to freeze to death fucking about in a continent where you have no business. Thus, the final entry should have read as follows;

Had we lived, these dead bodies would not have to tell the tale of lunacy. We are getting weaker of course and the end cannot be far. I can write no more. Send my wife to find me. That way nobody will ever find me.

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dotcat

Let's get one thing straight before I even start ranting today. Quiche is a piece of shit and symptomatic of everything that is wrong with todays metrosexual pussy male. It's not even like tattoos, piercings leather or stabbing people, all of which were once signs of masculine dominance. There never has been and never will be anything masculine about quiche. What you do with your eggs in the privacy of your own home is up to you, but don't you dare ever make my eggs into a quiche.

Quiche is steak pie for the gel-in-your-hair generation. Whereas our Generation X friends would leave the lights on (it's more dangerous), kill not for fur but for fun and fart CFCs, we have to go around worrying how everything sweet little thing we do is going to impact upon the environment. The environment can do one. I don't give a shit about it. China has the right idea. Yeah, we'll do nice things for the environment, but only if we can make money and murder innocent pandas for their medical bollocks. That said, I would agree with China. You can't cross them. If any country went to war with them they would win through sheer weight of numbers. It would be like Attack of the Clones; you'd kill one and another equally amazingly trained, disciplined and dedicated warrior would take his place. And it's no coincidence that they don't eat any Quiche, preferring instead to snack on SHARKS FINS!!!!!!!

Quiche shouldn't even be eaten by women. It would be like a tacit acceptance of woman's inferiority to man, because you would be saying "look, I can't handle that 12 ounce steak, so just give me some egg, cream and pastry and I'll be done". All women should order the steak, and make a manly effort at eating it before handing over the remainder (forfeiting onion rings) to her man. Women are crap at everything, and eating is no exception.

Thus, it came to pass that I discovered the other day that I couldn't spell quiche, as you may have noticed in my previous post where I referred to it as Keish. Bile was directed at me by none other than Bobby Anglais, a man who eats Quiche but is ashamed to admit it, so leaves his quiche boxes on my bedroom floor in an attempt to incriminate me of homosexuality or pussification. I am not ignorant becayse I never ever require the word quiche again. I will never order a quiche. I will never cook a quiche. I will never buy a quiche. I will never allow my girlfriend to eat a quiche in public or in my presence. Therefore, for all I care, quiche can fuck off and die in a fire.

That's my opinion, anyway.

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dotcat

If you win the Argentinian second division, you are not promoted. In fact at first there is no such thing. It is split into two sections, Metropolitana B and Argentino A, and if you do well in these you qualify for Primera B Nacional. If you come first or second in this Clausura-based tournament, then you play off for a place in the Primera A Nacional, or something, and the two relegated clubs are not the bottom two that season, but the two with the lowest three season average points per game. If you lose this first playoff (which you can do by drawing but having finished lower in the league than you opponent) then you enter another playoff, where draws are settled by penalties instead. Failure here sees you play off against the third or fourth bottom team from Primera A Nacional over two legs where away goals count. Victory here sees you promoted.

This is fucking stupid and people in Argentina should realise this and hang their heads in the shame. Their fucking system has cost me five hours of Champ Man and nearly led to my all-conquering Quilmes team not getting promoted. Which would have made me angry.

But more importantly it represents the stigma of modern society that doesn't know what way it wants to go next. Every decision is manifested down into a complex formula of contingent numbers and apex curve graphs to give a definite and non-definite solution which are averaged into a risk assessment coefficient which if over 2 leads to the acceptance of the theorem unless the theorem is black gay Jewish or only has one functional arm in which case it gets positive discrimination and more housing allowance from the government. Kim Deal lamented the loss of simple bass guitar playing on BBC last night but it is not only in the world of failed guitarists that simplicity is a goal to aim for with passion and integrity. A footballer who has 100% pass completion and scores every goal will be the best player in the world. Those are simple requirements but people like Ronaldinho Messi and Steve Potts instead do stepovers and round the worlds in an attempt to bamboozle other players into submission without doing their own best effort first. Cooks like Jamie Oliver fuck around with herbs spices and keish instead of making hearty grub like bangers and mash and jam sandwiches. Amusingly, type "keish food" into Wikipedia search and the top match is "Hard Ons".

People should rediscover the simple way of nature that has served Darwin for millions of years. For example, if a Squirrel stood on the floor of the woods it got chonged by the bear. That is a simple formula. It is squirrel+(woods-trees)=death. It is not squirrel^2(date/time/postcode)*(woods+trees+lemons)(dick length/ball volume)=death^3. A similar example comes from placing a sea slug into the woods. Seaslug+woods=death. Similarly, priest+child=rape and women+remote=nuclear war. Nature works by these abiding rules of black and white, it is not grey or shaded. Things happen due to causes and effects and are simple in causality. They do not apply game theory or fuck around with astrology.

Argentinian Football should be the same.

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dotcat

I have felt every emotion in the world, ranging from the common ones like happiness, pity and superiority, down to the really rare ones that you only get on special days like Whitsun, such as trepidation, humility and apprehension. But I sometimes wonder if the last emotions are only rare because the words for them are stupid. For example, if trepidation was called plib, people would be much more likely to describe their state as being plib because it is an easy word to say. Indeed, millions of babies will have said it before they said any other word. So our emotional state is dictated by the words we use to describe our emotional state far more than we realise.

This is reflected across broader society. If there was no word for bossing then nobody would ever get bossed and we would not live in a democracy because of this. If there were no words for Jew then the war wouldn't have happened and therefore we wouldn't have microwave ovens, and thus children today would be much fitter and parents less lazy to just give their kids a microwave meal after school instead of cooking them fruit and vegetables to chong healthily like Jamie Oliver says. Turkey twizzlers would take over the world, and that would be an unacceptable state of affairs from any viewpoint.

Having felt every emotion I am in a good position to announce which one is best. The best is a combination of pity and pride. When you look down on an insignificant nothing who you have just bossed and you mock them for their ineptitude. It's not their fault you're just a don and you are better than them. It's not their fault that they are consigned to a life of failure and miserability dossing around the streets of somewhere cold and southern. Like Thierry Henry leaving a team of has-beens and never-will-bes to go to the new pasture that is green and win lots of trophies, you know you're the best and you are better than johnny jobber who is rubbish.

Love is the worst emotion. It makes you do bad things, both when you have it and when it is absent. It is the true evil of the world above things like the devil and too much salt on your chips. You have had your chips. I do not recommend love to my readers because it is like the fork in the road that leads to two oblivions; it doesn't matter which way you go, oblivion is both ways. So you are better served to ignore it and instead be a hedonistic bastard. I have lived the last 12 months to this mantra and they have been most excellent.

The most beige emotion is contentedness. Who cares about being content. I am content with a donner kebab and a tin of coke, but it's not really what the heart demands. The heart demands that I put lobster and crayfish salad into my mouth with a thousand island dressing and caviar cakes for pudding. It also requires Glens Vodka for lubrication to work. The provision of the above leads to an emotion known as elatedness, which is a positive emotion to have around the house. I like.

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S.Cat

Tragedy grips the world every day like a soccerpal cradles a football. It is part and parcel of the daily existence of mother earth. Without bad things happening there can be no good things because everything would be a monotone shade of greyish beige, and nobody likes beige.

Nobody cried when tens of thousands died in the Sierra Leone civil war.

Nobody seems to give a shit that Mugabe is sanctioning the massacre of successful white farmers by incompetent indigenous peoples who then produce pathetic crops leading to the death of Zimbabweans.

Nobody white remembers the Amritsar massacre.

Nobody even knows of the upwards of 400'000 Fur people murdered by the Janjaweed militia in Sudan.

Hutus massacring Tutsis. 1000 Uzbek protesters murdered by their government in 2005. 2000 dead in the Gujarat in 2005 following a bombing.

So why the fuck am I expected by the media and by society to overbearingly care about one child who went missing because her parents royally fucked up? Yes, it's a tragedy, yes, the crime should be condemned, and yes, it should be reported in the news.

Yet I pick up a newspaper fully a month later and I see her face plastered across the front. I log onto my e-mail and get spam from tweenagers urging me to forward a picture of a bear to all my friends for Maddie. I see her face on kebab house doors urging me to ring a number if I have any information.

I have no information. I am running out of compassion and I have no interest whatsoever in reading about such a thing on a daily basis. It just makes me think that, from a completely apathetic view, that there is one less Everton fan in the world.

The last time something caught the public imagination in such a way? The death of Princess Diana. The British public has a morbid fascination with death and misery.

Now, a few carefully placed adverts and updates, and I would not have thought anything of it. Thought it was a shame, yes. But the way the newspapers, and media in general, have hijacked the story to sell copy makes me sick to the stomach.

Even more sickening is the way C-List celebrities jump on the "Find Maddie" bandwagon in an attempt to breathe new life into flagging careers.

More sickening still is the way the newspapers will take any tenuous lead and use it to string out the story. "We Have New Hope". Yeah. The only new hope I care about is the one starring Mark Hamil.

Millions of people die silently each year, and yet the newspapers keep reporting daily the (we pretty much have to assume) death of one toddler who died due to the negligence of her parents just to make a quick buck.

At times like this I wish I was a commie.

<3
dotcatdotcom

I was thinking today about what would happen if I was the only man in the world. What would this mean for the global love life? What if everyone else male was either dead, gay, or Adrian Mutu therefore uninterested in a meaningful, mutually beneficial relationship with a woman? Would Adrian Mutu talk to anyone, or would he just score goals and snort cocaine off models before disappearing into the night as a mirage does into the desert? Would I get to boss every woman in the world, or would I choose one that was mint and remain with her? Would I be required by law to boss everyone immediately in order to repopulate the world? Would I die due to overexertion? Would I get the gush? How would we avoid the horrible consequences of every child being born in the world was half a statcat? Would the next generation down all have hairy eyeballs and the ability to breathe underwater due to all being half brother and half sister? What mutation would be most popular? Would a new species form? Would it be the end of every race in the world except caucasian or would they re-evolve away back to have their own features again? For example would you get one funny generation of Nigerians that were all half cast before they became properly black again or would they stay half cast forever? Would loads of women become a lesbian? Would I get to join in with the lesbians because lesbians like it a bit kinky and it would only be possible with me, therefore kinky? Would I have to worry about hordes of gay men trying to turn me around and into the gay man? Would any women work in the chongshop giving me the kebab, or would I have to stop chowing down fried crap at 4am whilst bossed? Would I have to watch women's football? Would I ever get to join in? Would the most popular sport in the world become flower arranging or cross-stitch patterns? Would things like government and transport and the gas bill suddenly become really well thought out and exude common sense? Would testosterone become as valuable as platinum? What about semen? Would I be able to sell my bodily produce for massive sums? Would I get to be president or would they vote in a woman to be president? Would Robinskis close? Would the AU be shit still? By definition would I win best male artist at the Brit awards every year or would they take the award away? Would all the other men come back to life as a zombie and try and chase me around like in 28 Days Later or would they stay dead? Who would make computer games? WHO WOULD MAKE PES? Would every team on PES except Kensington Athletic become "Classic"? Why don't they make unlockable classic line-ups on PES like United '99 or England '66 or Holland '74 or Huddersfield '23? Why can't you go to a mode where you choose 11 players for your team from a list and then boss your friend. Would these features occur if a woman was making PES? Would I get to make PES? Would I have enough time to do everything or would I have to delegate slaves from rubbish places like Dorset and Leigh to do stuff for me. Would women slaves be of any use?

I don't know the answer to any of these questions.

<3
dotcatdotcom

Etiquette is important for men because it is what separates the man from the baboon. A man can have manners and do the right thing in polite company whilst the baboon eats flies that landed on its friends arse; that is not etiquette. Etiquette is about doing the correct thing at the correct time amongst the correct people. There is an etiquette for everything. For example, there is etiquette when you eat a burger, there is etiquette when you go to the zoo, and in Japan there is even an etiquette to beating seven shades of shite out of your nemesis. In this revered column I today aim to reveal to you how to avoid the thorny issue of bossing a woman that doesn't want you to boss her.

The first and most important rule is, as I have revealed formerly, to boss her immediately. If you provide a woman with the time and reason for negative thoughts to enter her head then she may reject you advances, which would otherwise be as welcome as a bison is to the grass of the plains. However, if you stumble over whilst fucked and engage her in small talk, your bison will instead be transported to the china shop and break lots of expensive things; this is not a positive experience for anyone involved. Because women like china vases, when you proverbially smash them with your proverb bison she will reject your advances. Therefore, it is proper etiquette to walk up to a girl and claim her as soon as possible, if possibly before she is even aware of your presence. It is the only fair thing in the world.

The second is to be voracious in your appetite for the opposite sex. People talk of legendary Casanova's like Casanova, Jamie Theakston and the Green Power Ranger, but modelling your approach on these gentlemen would be as fatal as death. They do not know how to boss a woman because they never had to try, their combination of good looks, wit, charm and sausage formidibility meant that bossing women was as easy for them as breathing. On a role model scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is Myra Hindley and 10 is Adrian Mutu, they get about a 2 or 3. Instead you must envisage yourself as the cookie monster who has just got the jar. MMNMNMMFESNMFNESMNMNMFESMNMNNN WOMENNNN. You enter the room and begin gorging yourself on them immediately. It is the only way, and this is because if a woman sees you and you are only hitting on her, she will grow suspicious of your actions and jettison. Conversely, if you show her that your interests are broad, she will welcome your attention, and you will be victorious.

You must not, however, fool her into thinking that you are going to be her boyfriend. This would be a fatal mistake that is punished by being followed around by a woman lots and lots, but instead of doing good things she will do bad things like bleat and ask for things. You must instead make it clear that your liaison is a temporary measure to ensure your mutual benefit in the hours immediately ahead of you. The woman desires a commitment but you, as a red blooded male, must resist such temptations because they are not beneficial.

If you follow these three rules, things will work and you will have a good time. I hope I have been on assistance.

<3
S.Cat

Your life is worthless; you should go to Switzerland and end it with euthanasia. Here is my reasoning.

Two classes of people work behind the counter in the post office, immigrants and failures. As you are not the former, you must be the latter. I am neither, therefore I shall use the next three paragraphs of my time to boss you to within spitting distance of your death.

Most normal people, when they go to work, do what they are contracted to do. There is a tacit understanding between employer and employee about what takes place when a worker is at work. Can you guess what it is? That's right, it's work! You are expected to fulfil your duties to the best of your ability in exchange for the minimum wage, which enables you to ram tins of baked beans down the parched throats of your defenceless, famine-stricken, salt-poisoned children and your worn out whore-bag wife. You do not go to work to sit in your office and masturbate, nor do you go to work to throw things at customers. However, it would appear that you, Mr. Post Office man, are above the law, and you feel that you should be allowed to enable your family to continue polluting the gene pool in exchange for nothing. I find this attitude disagreeable in the extreme.

"Ah, but Mr. Cat, it was friday afternoon" I hear you bleat. Shut up. Around me you are not allowed to speak, above the age of 16, unless you have a GCSE in English. That should be legislation in my opinion, but even though it is not, you can enforce it vigilante-style by backhand slapping, nay stabbing, anyone who spouts crap without the relevant documentation to prove that they are capable of stringing a coherent sentence together from time to time. Now that you are silent, I'd like to know why you feel it is acceptable to bunk off friday afternoon simply because you can't be arsed to post my packages? I certainly do not find it acceptable to find you, having just risked life and limb in the rain on the death bike, sitting in your office with Playgirl hiding your trouser tent whilst you casually point to a sign that says "Closed". You are open for another half hour, you bitch. Your front door says so. You are lazy and deserve to die.

Perhaps death would be too good for you, though. No, I'd like to see you suffer properly for your crime. I would ask you which limb you valued the most, and then remove the other three with my bare hands. From your remaining good limb I would dangle you, before unleashing a swarm of scorpions onto your body. Whilst laughing, I would them begin to immolate your skin square inch by square inch, until you beg for mercy. Being the nice guy that I am, I would show mercy, shooing away the scorpions and extinguishing the raging inferno blistering your epidermis, and I would allow you to hop home to your family on your remaining good limb (assuming you chose to keep a leg; you're kind of fucked if you kept an arm) in time for tea. They would be glad to see you, but maybe a little shocked at your medical condition. I hope you have health insurance.

When I want to post my packages, I should be allowed to. I take precedence over your undeserved little half-hour holiday. The sooner you accept this, the more fulfilled your totally unfulfilling life will be.

In other words, I was late to the Post Office today.

<3
S.Cat

Imagine my amazement at discovering that Black Boss isn't Claude Makelele, Michael Essien or Papa Bouba Diop, but in fact coffee out of a can exclusive to Japan.

Here's a whole website about it.

http://www.suntory.co.jp/softdrink/boss/black/index2.html

Believe.

<3
S.Cat

Yesterday I went to the US Embassy to be interviewed for my visa. This entailed a number of things I take none to kindly to; going to London, waiting in lines, talking to papermonkeys and missing Neighbours. Unfortunately for Uncle Sam, his waiting room was designed almost specifically to piss me the fuck off, and I had a most unpleasant four hours spent mostly reading Spaces of Work by Castree et. al. and eyeing up talent. Here are five ways to entertain me whilst I am waiting for you to perform pointless bureaucracy.

• Make Bears Fight. Not only is the bear-fighting more entertaining than watching Danny Williams stagger around the ring like a drunken spider and get beaten by a nobody, but you stand to make some money from betting, AND bear fighting is more illegal than rape, so you can feel really badass whilst you cheer on Yogi against poor, defenceless Sooty. What better tonic to stupid American animal rights protesters than to make bears fight in their embassy?
• Simulate Las Vegas. Most people going to the USA will, at some point, decide it is time to give their money to Daniel Negreanu and go to Las Vegas to lose at poker. Why not give them the opportunity to do so before they leave, too? A few too many Vodka Martinis, some dancing girls and a roulette table with a one eyed Russian croupier would make the time fly by.
• Have Gang War. Get your future immigrant camp counsellors into the spirit of the US of A by dividing them into two equal teams, painting their skin black, giving them UZIs and telling them that only the last gang standing will be allowed their visas. Then, when one gang is a bloody mess, simply administer crack cocaine to the winning team and kick them out onto the streets where they must live.
• Speed Dating. I met two attractive girls at the embassy. One was half-brazillian half-french and the other was a Manchester Fine Arts graduate. Two is an unacceptably low number. They should have introduced everyone to everyone, or at least me to everyone fit. This way we could have filled the four hours with some sex.
• Get Octoboss To Process Applications. The application process took fucking forever because they had about six worthless monkeys doing everything. So, why not simply get one Makelele octopus behind the scenes working on eight applications at once and get everyone in and out in about ten minutes? He could also double up as a bouncer and a sex icon.

In other news, I have a fucking huge head.

<3
S.Cat

Well no-one here is getting out alive. This time I've really lost my mind and I don't care...

Oh god, Mr Cat is singing lyrics from Dookie again. This can only mean one of two things. Either he is 15 again, or he is enjoying the sunsheyiiiiine. The latter is in fact the case. As I discussed below, the sun is a bossdogg. What I did not mention is that I'm writing this without being able to see the screen because the Derbyshire flag that I use as a curtain is not of sufficient METAL to keep the sun out. It just shines right through that crap. It's a bit shit, but because it is blue with a green cross of St George and a yellow Tudor rose in the middle, it's allowed a few mares. I am also still nailed from Robbos. I also got another "I know you from your website" last night. It's been a while since that shit happened, so Miss Lark, thank you for boosting my ego to infinite levels.

Today I wish to educate my readership. I will discuss the concept of swooping in for the kill. The concept of bagging a first snog, be it with a classy upper class champagne swilling ice queen, a working class slut wearing sweatbands, or a whore. I am not an expert in this field, but that makes my advice all the more prescient.

When you are with an upper class girl, you must boss her immediately. Imagine that you are Rino Gattuso and are faced with some idiot like Ariel Ibagaza. Or Andres d'Allesandro. Or perhaps Alexis Alexandrov. Some pussy south american AMC(/L). These gentlemen are all class and no substance. They are a chicken club sandwich with no bread. Nice and fancy but NOT WHAT YOU WANT. YOU WANT BEEEEF! You have to chong that shit down and ask for more. You have to put in a horrible knee high reducer in the first minute so that they disappear. With an upper class girl you do not have to talk to her. You must simply walk up and slip the tongue in. They are ice ice bany, and you cannot talk to them. This plan is foolproof, because she has no way to find out that you have a strange mixture of brummy, derby and new zealand for an accent, you have no opportunity to say owt stupid, and she is used to male porn stars and footballers, who behave as they wish. Therefore, your only option is to behave as you wish and she wishes, which is simply to boss her immediately. Don't even ask her if she wants to kiss you. The surprise is kinky, and it is not rape because she loves it really. And as I have previously announced, were I to rape someone by the end of the crime they would be loving that shit so badly that they wouldn't report me, they'd demand more. The same applies to an s.cat snog.

In the next chapter I shall discuss working class worthless trash. Why you are kissing this shit is anyone's guess, but I suppose I shall give you the benefit of the doubt. You're probably in dire need of some flange, and if her dad is a fisherman or a potato picker, chances are that she's never dated a footballer. This genre of woman is worthwhile because having sex is a two-bicep workout but masturbation is a one-bicep workout. Therefore, swoop. You must boss her immediately. Do not give her chance to put you off. She possibly talks with a non-estuary accent, which is a no-no, and she also probably splits infinitives. That's so common. In order to successfully bag her, it is a case of making her feel like she deserves you, which she doesn't, unless you are some fat ginger homosexual like the new captain of the 4th team. You must frame yourself as the prize. You are that crappy holiday or NEW TOASTER that Les Dennis would give away on family fortunes. You must make her find the top answer without phoning a friend or a 50-50. You must be cold and calculated as the assassin is, and swoop in whilst she is not expecting anything and bag that swag. She will thank you later when she is writhing in your glory.

Whores are a totally different concept. When you hand over some bisons to one, she is expecting you to kiss her; don't you dare. She has bad mouth AIDS of the pancreas. By not kissing her but stabbing her with some meat, you will be the enigma of the world. What is more enigmatic than paying a hooker for sex and then not kissing her? Certainly not being a mysterious randomly appearing badman who always wears shades. In comparison that is not enigmatic. You also do not contract any infections if you don't kiss her. Sexually transmitted diseases are quite bad, I think. They do things like make your penis shrink inside you so much it stabs your intestines and you die. Or so my vicar told me. However, despite this shit, the answer is still to boss her immediately. Walk up, and over your paper and chow down. You are male. Your desires are simple. Get involved.

I hope that this tutorial will be of use to some of you. You must boss her immediately. Then you shall reign supreme.

<3
S.Cat

The only people who do April Fools pranks on April 1 are fools.

PnL
StC

Isn't it wonderful? I'm listening to Dookie! I'm wearing shorts! It's time to crack out the Maggies on ice and sit in the garden watching Wimbledon with my quaint middle-class friends. No longer will I have to play poker at the pub with the heathen! I fucking love summer. It's when all the good shit happens. I always play awesome football in the summer. I always have my best nights out in the summer. I always make new friends in the summer. I always have a girlfriend in the summer. I always have really floppy cool hair in the summer. I'm actually sitting here with a smile on my face, and I'm not often happy when I'm writing crap here. I'm usually cooped up in my manc cupboard writing away simply as an alternative to PES or masturbation. Today, though, the sexy sun is shining though my sexy window onto my sexy face and I'm turning browner by the minute. Mint. Welcome to paaaaaaradise!

Only we all know that by the weekend it will be pissing it down again, and I'll be sitting in my room writing about female Bangladeshi textile workers inequality or something else that is only of consequence for the next two months of my life.

But whilst I'm revelling in the warmth of the summer glow and the feel of freshly cut grass under my feet, let's talk about happy things. Happy chat for happy people. A happy, funny story that happened to happy, funny people on a lovely summers day.

My holiday to Kos 18 months ago was a bit of a schlet down. I was almost 20, and the oldest person at the hotel (minus siblings) by about four years. Thank god it was all inclusive, offering limitless free beer and wine. Sweet, tasty adventure fuel. The amount of my own fun I created was really something to admire, but I totally outdid myself on about the fifth night of the holiday. The entertainment that the hotel put on for us was abysmal most nights, requiring copious amounts of alcohol to be imbibed before you could even begin to enjoy that crap. So, yeah, as usual I was pretty lagging by the time they announced what the main act of the evening would be.

Russian dancing girls.

My first thought was "How the fuck am I going to get it up for her later if I'm thishhh pishhhed?". My second thought was "I wonder how much she costs anyway?". My third thought was "MINTTTTTTTT!".

So I sat down and enjoyed the show. And a great show it was. Tall blonde from Moscow Vs. curvaceous brunette from Slovakia. As usual I went for the curvaceous brunette, as appears to be my wont. My brother went for the slim blonde, as is his wont. Between us, I reckon we could just about manage Keira Knightley. Just.

After the show was finished, I drank several gin and tonics and started talking to my friend Angelos, the hotel manager. I was wasted, so wasted no time in asking him to introduce me to the chicks. Bless him, he did. The poor girls didn't know what had hit them, but amazingly they liked me. Clearly my tales of a stable suburban nothing upbringing and lots of roads that are the same fascinated these people brought up with a background of war, political unrest and revolution, because they invited me to their apartment after they'd done their second dancing assignment of the night, at some club in Kos town. They duly left.

In hindsight, I now know this to be a rejection.

However, 19 year old Statcat knew of no such concept.

21 year old Statcat now chats up women by saying "The Red Army killed 1600 of their own men at Stalingrad. However, the Weimar republic were not prepared for winter". I'm not sure which is worse.

I remained awake courtesy of more gin and tonics. It all goes a little hazy. It all goes VERY hazy. Then it all turns into one big beige mess. I guess that's what it must be like to be visually impaired. I can't remember shit. I just remember thinking "If I drink ALLLLL this gin, then the Russians will find me attractive. Russians are always pissed, right?". Again, hindsight tells me that, when dealing with foreigners, one must play up the sophisticated, intelligent angle of being English, lest be filed alongside your average England football fan / BNP voter.

However, the result of the gin was favourable in that I didn't wake up in my own bed that night. Oh no. And neither did I go to sleep alone.

I woke up at 6am sat on one of the hotels outhouse toilets, with my pants round my ankles, a messy shit in the toilet, and a cute little mouse looking eagerly at my bollocks.

I don't think I got laid. I went to bed instead.

PnL
StC

Davina is currently on TV fronting a programme about contraception. What the fuck does she know about contraception? She's pregnant every fucking year on Big Brother.

PnL
StC

I saw the black guy who accused me of being racist in the curry house again the other day. He was playing the clarinet on Songs of Praise.

I'm so glad I'm a better person than him.

Incidentally, I wanted to discuss race again here here, because it's an issue that's really pissing me off, but in today's politically correct environment there is no possible way to discuss my viewpoint without someone twisting my words to make it sound like I'm a racist. So instead of discussing it, I'll simply state it.

I don't care what colour your skin is. It is of no bearing whatsoever to me in my judgement of you. If, however, you use your colour of skin as some kind of factor or some sort of race-card, then I'll judge you immediately, and think you're a prick.

PnL
StC

I once went on holiday with my family. There, I met a group of morally repugnant, greasy sleazes who were otherwise known as Greek teenagers. They groped my 12 year old sister, gawped at my mothers breasts, and pretty much ran around with their penises out doing as they pleased. I was glad to escape Cyprus. It's fucking shite. I left safe in the knowledge that I'd never run into a group of people as baseless, annoying and just fucking shit as the residents of that god-forsaken rock. Why the fuck are people fighting over it anyway?

Anyway, I was wrong. I decided to come to university and, like the poor bastards from Chernobyl, I was suddenly and unwittingly exposed to something that's probably going to ruin your year. Student Politics.

The mere concept of Student Politics is a laughable one. It's totally groundless and has no influence on anything at all outside of campus. What do these stupid people think they can actually achieve by running for posts like "Womens Officer" or "Environment and Ethics Secretary"? World peace? Freedom for Israel (more on that gem later)? The only "useful" thing my union has achieved in the past 12 months is to introduce fair trade goods to the Union shop and vending machines, and this, my friends, is of no fucking use to me. I'm going to do what 97% of the nation do and just shop elsewhere for my PG tips. But no, the arrogant attitude of the student union is that, by restricting my choice of goods, they're somehow going to save the world! From who? Me? Grow up. You're just a bunch of kiddies who have found themselves in some power and want to abuse it in as many ways as possible. I know of one Union that banned the sale of Coca Cola because OMG! they pay people less to make it in India than they would pay people in the UK. Economics, kids. Get your heads around it before you start crying that life isn't fair. Life's very fair. That's the way life workds.

Their campaigns to be voted in piss me off. They're all so amateurish and crap. Vote for me! Class president!!!! I will run your Union and make it t3h b3ttah!!1i1iI!! One darling candidate promised the following;

• To represent YOU
• To improve the union
• To improve campus life

Well, thanks for that sweetheart. How can I not vote for you? I'm sure Adolf Hitler made similar promises, and look how that turned out. Pretty well, in fact, until 1939. The flags they fly outside the union piss me off too. They are an eyesore. RAFIQ FOR HEALTH OFFICER! Who cares. Not me. One chick even tried to get me to vote for her mate by clocking the fact I was a Derby fan on a coach to Leeds, then saying the next day she hoped Derby County got promoted this year. Love, if you could genuinely, put promotion for the Rams as one of your electoral promises, I'm there. If you were attractive, I'd have been there too. Sadly, she came across as really hollow and insincere, and because I'm not here next year, I give ever less than zero shits. And this crap they do where they write their name on the pavements in chalk. Isn't that vandalism, the bastards?

And, anyway, it's all one big farce, because the Muslim and Jewish societies just block vote for their candidates, and because there are so many of them, anyone who actually has a policy that will improve the lives of students doesn't get a look-in. It's not what you'll do with the Union night-life that matters if you want to be EVENTS CO-ORDINATOR or some shit, but what your stance on Iraq is. We can't have any anti-Semitics planning our nightclubs now, can we? More bothersome still is the constant whining about Iraq and Israel, and the raping of the Student Direct this year because of the idiot who was put in charge by his Muslim cronies. Try reading it. It reads like fucking socialist propaganda. It's vile. Almost a hate-rag.

Then you get to the World Affairs section. Personally, I couldn't give a toss about Iraq and Israel, and I certainly don't give a toss what some intrinsically biased bulkheads think about it. Maybe the Jews and Muslims care. Good for you. Care about it somewhere else, like within your respective societies. That's what they're for right? Jewish Society for Jewish affairs? Use that shit rather than hijacking what are supposed to be secular things for a secular union. For example, Mr racist, bigoted incompetent Student Direct editor, you're meant to be catering for your entire student membership, not your elite circle of union people plus your little religion club. You certainly shouldn't bring your own personal and religious issues into mainstream union politics, where they simply serve to strangle the issues that people like me, the typical student, really care about. For example, instead of World Affairs propaganda, I want to read about all the hotties on campus, where I can buy a good curry, and who's fucking who on Celebrity Love Island. I want cheaper beer and better nights in the Union. And I'm sure I'm not alone.

My recommendation to you, student politicians, is to pull your heads out of your ass and do something useful. For example, not student politics.

PnL
StC

If ever a website was guilty of being utterly wankadoodly fucking shiteblocks, then MySpace is it. I'd rather look at www.lemonparty.org for an entire week than spend one minute browsing peoples MySpace pages. These are the reasons why.

Every cunt has The Postal Service as their profile music

The mere concept of profile music is a very, very bad one. If I'm listening to some 65*Daysofstatic or some Pelican or something, I don't need "YOGIS GOT A GIRLFRIEND BEAR... SUSIE... SUSIE" suddenly spewing out of my speakers. Fortunately, this has only happened once, and quite a while ago, because now everyone thinks they are cool because, by having The Postal Service as their music, they're showing that they're into both the trippy electro that Dntel make, and Death Cab For Cutie, who are very emo. Personally, I think you're trying too hard to impress me. And, as ever, I'm right. Did you know that 22% of MySpace users self-harm?

Some people send 20000 bulletins a day

Here's a story from my mind. I pulled a girl at Fifth Ave last Monday. Those in the know are already expecting some form of either disaster or kinky, meaningless sex. I'm afraid that for today you'll have to put up with a tale involving the former, but I'll work on it. I got her number and the next day realised there was a phone number on my mobby that didn't have a name attached. Crap. Tap tap tap who are you click send whoosh beep beep. "Im Dani. u pulld me on Mon!!! u gt a myspace lv?xxx!!o_O<3".

Oh crap.

So I unwisely give her my MySpace, she added me, and I clicked on her profile when I get home. My first thought upon the page loading was "What can I do to prevent my brain exploding inside the next two minutes?". My second thought was "How do I turn off The Postal Service?". My third thought was "What is this miasma of crapness?" It was mostly pink, apart from the fucked up bit in the middle where you're supposed to do stuff. And her pictures were so fucking emo it's barely true. She was hot, though. Really hot.

Thinking it a job well done, I went to check my bulletins. I had about 4 from Danni, then one from a friend, then another 5 from Danni, then another one... you get the picture.

This kind of attention seeking went out of fashion when it stopped being cool to shout EVERYONE LOOK AT ME! and do a handstand in the playground. But I guess when you're a hot emo chick with nearly 2000 friends in the cyberland, you can do pretty much as you please. But that's not to say it pleases me.

It's full of fatties

So, having waded through Danni's bulletins, I come to check my new messages. Thou Hast 3 New Messages, Exhalted Statcat. Brilliant. Click whirr load "I think ur hot wana add me?" My interest is piqued. I add. I go to her page. I turn off The Postal Service. I click on her pictures, and discover that she's grotesquely overweight and looking for someone who doesn't care. You'll be looking a while, love. Next message then. Click whirr load "ur profile titilates me between my legs". Mint. Add click load stop music pictures fatty. Exactly the same thing happens with the third girl, only she has the fucking Macarena on her page. What's going on today? Where are all the supermodels who usually add me then message me? Oh yeah...

It's full of supermodels who add you then try and sell you viagra

I'm not kidding. I get this about twice a week. Some really fucking SCORCHING woman (invariably 19/f/California) will add me to MySpace, and I'll accept her add with baited breath to see what the fuck she wants. Just as invariably, she wants to remind me of my inadequate spam dagger, and offer some Tibetan herbal solution to my problems. Now, even ignoring the fact that Tibet is too high to grow herbs, I can't help but feel a little let down. Remember, I'm working in LA this summer, so I need all the Californian stunners I can get my hands on. Sadly, it appears this summer will be long and fruitless, as all the hot women Stateside are Viagra saleswomen.

It will give you cancer

That's right. I did some research the other day, and asked some people how they got their cancer. Of the three cancer victims I questioned, one was dead and, although she didn't say much, didn't absolve MySpace of a role in her untimely death. The other two cancer victims blamed MySpace squarely for their cancers. One went on to add that she no longer eats carrots or salmon for fear of cancer. She also has a paranoid fear of mobile phones.

I, however, will never get cancer. I bet you my funeral expenses.

PnL
StC

I really, really wish I could have posted this shit on valentines day. Alas, only twats do anything on valentines day, so I sat in my bedroom and watched wrestling on my own. Besides, I was yet to stumble upon the eye-opening ebook "101 Romantic Ideas" by Michael Webb. Reading it was amongst the most side-splittingly funny 30 minutes of my week, along with the 30 minutes I have just spent spreading rumours that Bob Woolmer has committed suicide. Get well soon, Bob.

Anyway, this little title caught my eye on Oink, and it was only 500kb so I downloaded it. The Statcat is always on the lookout for ways to charm the ladies, and I thought that, surely, this book would contain at least one or two tactics I could use in aid of my quest to bed some really classy virgin bird from Kent, or something. How wrong I was.

Idea one gets your hopes up with what is, actually, a really cool idea. "If your partner is going away for a few days, tell her that you are worried about her so you have organized a bodyguard to look after her. Then give her a small teddy bear!", sayeth the text. That's funny! That's cute! That's smart! That doesn't make you look like a wuss! I like it. However, that is where the good material ends.

90% of the remainder of this book is pussy beta male shit that you don't even have to do to your girl, you just have to leave some message with a rose somewhere then fuck off. However, here are some really poor suggestions taken verbatim from the book, and below, the improvements I suggest to make to get more sex, be more cool, and not behave like a total cunt (aka a devout mormon celibate vegan rascist croque