The Pedantry of PederastsPosted September 6th 2006 by PaPa
For those to whom this thought has not yet occurred, it should be made clear that only fucking lady-boys heat up the milk for their hot chocolate on the hob when there's a perfectly serviceable microwave about two feet away from them. Real men have too many things to worry about in their hurly-burly life of sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll to be able to wait more than one minute and forty seconds for their hot chocolate, and they certainly don't have time to wash up a motherfucking saucepan. The kind of pansy who pulls that kind of shit probably has some kind of preference as to which order the milk and chocolate powder are placed in the mug and gets all fucking high and mighty when someone happens to create a 2 meg, 8 second wav file. Well, you now see the product of that unsuccessful compression on this site, and I think you'll agree that it was barely worth the emotional anguish and psychological trauma necessary for its conception. Fucking hob warmers.
In conclusion, PaPa 1-0 Dae.
Special builds, secret techs, illegal moves...Posted August 28th 2006 by Dae
Some shit is going down with our file server. Downloads will continue to be wankered while I sort it out.
In other news, SA wins.
Sporks?Posted August 18th 2006 by Dae
So, the festival has come to town. The blues guitarists have emerged sleepily from their respective sheds, the fire-eaters from their lives of pyromaniacal crime. While a five minute walk down the Royal Mile inspires near immediate festival fatigue - egged on no little by the rain forest or two's worth of ineptly conceived pamphlets - some notable acts, Peruvian panpipists and Jamaican chess allstars among them, seem to be cashing in on their ethnicity to lucrative effect.
The film festival kicked off only a few days ago, and oh yes, I was there (in the exquisitely decorated and absolutely heaving Cameo screen one, no less). Exchanging pleasantries with people I'm surprised to find I know, I might be forgiven for being fooled into feeling part of the industry. Thanks to Anna, friend and box-office gal some may be familiar with from the Sugar Puffs anecdote, I've taken in more than my non-existant finances would otherwise allow: last night found me face to face (thirty odd rows of audience excepted) with the man responsible for the infamous video to Benny Bennassi's Satisfaction. Leaving the auditorium, I could barely contain the desire to race naked into the streets, camera in hand and boombox on shoulder, awaiting the spontaneous revelry that would inevitably establish my career as music video director extraordinaire.
But I didn't come here to talk about any of that. On Friday the eighteenth of August, a more propitious day having never occurred, what in the world would, or should I be talking about but some especially motherfucking snakes on one particularly motherfucking plane? It was at three this afternoon that I heard the door open, saw Ian look deeply into my blinking eyes and speak those words that my heart had so been longing to hear: "Do you want to go and see Snakes on a Plane?" The slow clamber out of bed, the hastily donned coat and passage through the scathing rain - we four (Aidan and Murray included) were never so intrepid - and after all that, we were not for a second disappointed. The film knew it's business: the three elements we needed, the Snakes, the Plane, and Samuel L., were held like golden carrots before our slavering mouths throughout the monumentally dull opening, before appearing in a dizzying succession. The audience cheering that greeted Jackson's entrance remained frequent throughout any use of the words 'snakes' and 'plane' in the same sentence. The meat of the film left nothing to be desired, consisting as it did entirely of shots involving snakes, planes, or in a number of notable cases, both. The script was peppered with some truly memorable lines, most worthy of mention being Samuel's when, searching the cabin-crew cupboards for weaponry, he indignantly reflects on a package of plastic cutlery with the line "SPORKS?"
This is Dae, thinking so you don't have to.
Dae Buys New ShoesPosted July 24th 2006 by Dae
Tim Tam SlamPosted June 30th 2006 by PaPa
My absence from the front page of this website has been lengthy, and already I hear many of you crying out in the long dark of the Internet, asking me why. Why have I left you without one of my poorly written and factually derelict rants? Why have I left you in the clutches of Dae and his masturbatory linguaphilia? These questions, and more, shall all be answered, but not now, and not by me.
Rather, in a rarity for this site, my post will concern itself with the subject matter referred to in its title – the infamous Tim Tam Slam. For the exact technique of this manoeuvre you may wish to familiarise yourself with the bullet points in the above link, but I am not myself concerned with the cold, unfeeling methodology; my intention is instead to describe my personal experience with this awe-inspiring biscuit dunking procedure.
It begins, as so many things do, underwhelmingly. At first I was unable to discern any effect at all, and I may be forgiven at least partially for believing that I was doing it wrong. Such was not the case. This period of inactivity was merely the time that it took for the hot tea to travel the length of the biscuit, and when it reached my mouth it struck me almost physically, so unexpected was its appearance. After this first shock I was unable to continue for more than a couple of seconds before I realised that what I held was no longer a biscuit, but had become a hot, sodden mass. Quickly cramming it into my mouth, I became aware of the horrific damage done to the structure of the biscuit by the tea, its alteration from crunchy snack to amorphous piece of faerie flesh being complete and entire. I was rendered almost insensible by this effect – my only response when an enquiry was made after my success was to shout a barely coherent string of affirmatives.