Conspiracy.

I don't how something so popular and crucial to the survival of the human race could disappear, just like that, without anyone noticing.

Maybe it got too big and so the corporations had to shut it down.

or Maybe it imploded from a great expansion in mass.

Now, every November 21st we must ask.

Where have aquarium screensavers gone?

Dear Prudence

Dear Internet,

May I please request you to refrain from writing letters to things not of a tangible nature.

This includes, but is not limited to:

Dear School, I like totally hate you.

Signed, dumb slag.

Internet, why do you hurt me so?

Love, Duke Scrotum-Face IIX

This is for your benefit as well as mine.

Sincerely,

Rory Stuart Ross Parker

Please note: when SkyNet takes over the second example will of course be acceptable.

Euthanasia.

I'm very pro-choice.

If someone wants an abortion, then golly gosh, they should be allowed.

And if someone is in pain, then I think it should be their right to decide.

But such a decision should be taken away in at least one case.

People who pronounce Target 'Tarjé' are deserving of being Euthanised, whether they have a death-wish or not.

The moral of this story?

Stop being wankers.

It's true.

"Cold showers? They're for psychotics."

(Alexander 1995, Seinfeld)

and on the seventh day...

Driving through Brisbane one can notice one thing.

The many, many churches scattered through.

I'd have absolutely no problem with this if not for the sickeningly awful signs out the front of each one.

"Brush up on your bible, it prevents truth decay"

"7 days without prayer makes 1 weak"

"Become an organ donor, give your heart to god"

"Lost? Use GPS - God's Plan of Salvation"

Eugh.

Signs like that don't convert me, but rather divert me.

They aren't funny and they aren't cute.

They aren't informative and they aren't clever.

So why.

They make me feel like Job.

The one church sign I can stomach.

Snippy snippy

As I'm sure you would have noticed, I hate everything.

One thing I hate more than most, is haircuts.

I got one today which, as usual, resulted in me looking like Elton John.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road (and farewell good looks)

The hairdressers always attempt to give me a homosexual style; sweeping over the fringe, and gellin' up the back.

It doesn't suit me at all, but I guess it looks okay.

The factor not taken into consideration by the hairdresser, is that I'ma lazy turd.

Never am I going to product up my hair.

Never am I going to touch my hair.

So, this odd style sits flat on my oddly shaped head.

Now, rather than being Elton John's lovechild;

I look like Boris Karloff's incarnation of Frankenstein's monster.

Sitting in that chair, under the gay little apron (henceforth known as a gaypron), with my hair wet and combed over, I feel vulnerable.

If I were to be attacked by a minion of my nemesis, how would I be able to counter-attack?

That chair.

Its emasculating.

Like rather than cutting my hair they are cutting, well you know…

And the hairdressers can sense this.

Like a dog, hairdressers can smell fear.

So, they feel it necessary to spray a little water into my eyes, or blow-dry the crap out of my face.

The cruel, heartless twats.

I don't like talking to hairdressers and yet, for some reason, they want to know every detail of my personal life.

What school do you go to?

How old are you?

Doing anything rad today?

All of the above can be answered with two words.

Piss off.

Competitive wankers.

Oh I'm sorry, I didn't realise how talented you were.

NRL, AFL, Soccer and every other competitive sport possible, you play in.

Oh you don't?

Then why is it every bloody monday I have to put up with you telling us all about how your team won.

'Say, how'd the Bombers go on the weekend?'

"Mate… We bloody well won!"

'Struth, mate!'

Wankers.