Richjones.com

Decisions, Decisions.

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The really funny part about bad tattooing decisions and the myriad examples out there on the intranets – is that every tattoo you see on the web has been scrutinised after the fact, in a mirror of ultimate realisation of doom, passing fit for electronic distribution.  Consequently, what we’re seeing is an endless stream of “artistic masterpieces” conceived in a very strange mental circumstances that aren’t rescinded when facing the cold hard truth.  So, basically, the real crazy cunts who actually stand by their decisions.

Look at those Unrepentant Eyes

I want to see a tattoo reality show that captures the diverse nature of sometimes impulsive, ill-conceived tattooing.  Let’s mix up the good with the bad.  Let’s see some variation.

Sure, there are tattoo shows, but when you watch Miami or LA Ink, they hand-pick their clients, considering their KoiFish/Dead person pinup potentiality quotient and formulaicly (if it isn’t a word, it is now) lay the sentimental rigmarole on you.  After a while, you realise that the concept of the art takes a back seat to more tiresome, often negative circumstances surrounding the tattoo.  Sure, death and whatnot occurs – but let’s save the gloomy piano montage for our own death and whatnot circumstances.

Another Unfortunate Case Of Moronocity

Worse still, In LA Ink’s case, the show has introduced blatantly contrived in-shop drama carried out by people who didn’t sign up to be actors.  It’s always a shame when you witness “reality” tv whereby some conflict has occurred off camera, and the producers coerce the protagonists into recreating the scene on camera.

Who can forget this

Let’s use the TV time to witness geniuses who want to endorse corporations, get jizzing cocks on their arm, barb wire on their biceps, butterflies on their ankles, AK47s on their wrists, transform their genitalia.

Brilliant

Ingenious uses of local geography..

Their is a vag in there somewhere

If only I worked retail…

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A Princely Welcome

The Swayze Express Becomes A Ghost Train

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At work, I read the breaking news regarding the untimely demise of The Patrick.

Out of respect, I stand up and publicly announce that I will now “dirty dance” for 10 seconds in honour of the great man.  I begin grinding (poorly).   In my mind, pink, steaming tentpoles spontaneously (combust) spring up from myriad crotchial campsites witnessing this monstrosity. Thank the good lord this asexaul serenade will last only for a full ten seconds (or I’d have to suck a lot of cock to get this place back on the job).

Someone else, who I will give credit – for having a remarkable ability to precisely time an unwittingly comedic mistaken “resonant” response, understanding my gesture, seeks to further the cause by offering his own flavour of tribute:

He begins singing “Theme from: The Bodyguard”.

Brilliant.

Gonna Miss You,Man

For what its worth

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Yep.

Again, you see deviation from what I actually registered as.

I actually cleverly disguised my ruse by registering as “Poundme` Vag“.  Whilst I know nothing of accents, in my mind, I envisioned the pronunciation to be “Pound-May Vag”, thus obscuring the truly hidden secret meaning.  Pretty sneaky.

Mrs Poundme Vag

Staying Classy

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Have you ever wondered what a postal worker would do in the situation where they must hand write a potentially hyperoffensive mistaken name?

I have.

And thus, launched “The Cuntbridge Chronicles”.

Knowing that the good folks at “The Digest” are only too happy to send mail to anybody, I signed up under a name that I felt was both unfortunately plausible and fulfilling in a most childish sense.

Mr Peter Cuntbridge Begins his attempt to win a million dollars

The juxtaposition of “Cunt” with the incredibly beige word “Bridge” was truly a coming together of monumental proportion. As the words slammed together, a seed of doubt was born.  A piece of true genius – or so the author thought.  The requirement of subtlety being somewhat debatable.  (It is always important to intellectualise pure childishness with specks of brainiological bamboozle as you age as this sort of activity becomes increasingly less acceptable).

Knowing that the good folks at the digest tend to send an initial care package of books to their registrants, I also knew that a delivery slip would be incoming.

First Pickup Slip

As expected, the clerk uses a classic scrawl method to abstract the confronting nature of the surname, whilst providing minimum legibility for comprehension to occur.  Big points for that tactic.

Naturally, I did not pick it up,  so, of course, the second slip comes some time later.

Much Better

This time, we see a more bold unrepentant hand at work.  This person fears not repercussions!  Tally ho! .  At this stage, I imagine Cuntbridge is a bit of curiosity for the good folks at the P.O.

From there on, I received no more packages, though our man Cuntbridge did receive some lofty awards.  He fucking deserved them, though.

To Lofty Heights We Rise

He was selected from a long list of applicants as the type of man who’d do all you wankers proud.

Too Right

Unsurprisingly, the mail kept up for quite some time – at least 10 different articles.  I can Imagine if I’d (sorry, Peter) had actually responded, it would have quickly devolved into a deluge.  Having experienced what occurred when my mother satisfied her curiosity in responding to the good folks, I know that the slightest bit of reciprocation intensifies the process astronomically.  The letters become even more hilariously pseudo-official and each successful stage produces even more decadent lashings of shiny gold and silver foil embossing with super elaborate gimmicky response pieces to boot.

Despite this, I never, ever saw a single sell.  Besides the books at the start, I really have no idea what the grand point of this sweepstakes thing is,  but I have to thank the folks at the digest for keeping idiots like me busy.  Between this and my right hand, I’m a pretty happy chap.

Of course, I know what you’re thinking – anybody could do this – and you’re right, after all because a computer does all the work, right?

Tell that to “Mr Mario Luigi Bowserpeach” (Note the spelling that ended up in the database)

Maybe they aren't into nintendo

Unfortunately, I cannot locate any items for my final and truly greatest achievement in life – receiving mail for Mrs Poundme’ Vag, if I find any of it, I’ll post it.   Ah yes, I burst when I came home from work (yes, digging holes by the side of the road – your suspicions are correct), discovering a letter for my dear old nanny.  Whoever supervises that database obviously has a sense of humour.  Tip of the hat.

Anyway, I “growed” up and left that rental house.

But.. perhaps the most artistic aspect of this nonsense is the fact the mail will continue to come to that house for quite some time.  Bit of a diabolical surprise for the next tenant.  Keep that in mind, next time you’re unhappy with your realtor.

Ta-ta

The Turner Hooch Deadshittian Scale

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I used to work at a charity, where I would have to enter email addresses from registrants/applicants.  The flagrant obliviousness when the masses select email addresses used to tickle me, no end.  I’d say at least 30% of society still don’t quite understand that if you write words into an email address, they will be read and brainiologically comprehended by real, authentic human beings.

Waaaait a second.. does this mean funky_weed_dealer420@hotmail.com will not be getting that rental application approved?  We’ve all heard of this type of thing – it occurs every day.  I liken selecting your email address to making “an evolutionary step” – I am certain that the basic capacity for logic, tested in completing this arduous task, clearly sets you in one of two groups.

Plain stupidity aside -  Now, I am an ugly fucker and do not deserve to judge, really, but I know in my heart that any “princess”, “ballerina” or other stereotypically feminine language toting .. female is immediately completely and utterly not in the same headspace as me (the headspace where intriguing conversation is king – and that a female has the capacity to hold her own).   The same goes for people who are so besotted by sporting teams (or really, anything, movies, celebrities, etc) that their emails must indicate this.  I like sport, but I do not under any circumstances want to suggest that I have such a microcosmic outlook on life, that the only really salient way  I can describe myself is “broncosfan89″ or “jesuslovesme34″*.

Even today, it’s still one of the quickest ways to quickly ascertain where upon the “turner-hooch deadshittian scale” an individual rests.  Of course, anybody sane looks for something very generic in order to demonstrate as little as possible, thus, confounding calculations based on turner-hooch analysis.  Still, one can always fall back on the widely  accepted assumption that everybody else, aside from yourself is a moron.

*I have met some great christians (you know, the ones that seem so incredibly pragmatic that you suspect they don’t even believe) – but most of them basically ooze Jesus out of every pore, as if any relaxing for even a moment willmake him wink out of existence.

What is Stephen Merchant’s Net Worth?

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That’s the question I idly entered into google, having suffered another hypercaffeinated shift of the cranial overlord.  The repulsive nature of asking such a gossipistic question tainting the search, but outweighed by sheer curiosity.  At least if I were searching for “bikini pics of milla jovovich (preferably with muffmound, please)” I could whack it and have something to show for my troubles.

I have always wondered, just how much wealth could Smerch achieve and still maintain his clearly stated stinginess? How far must wealth go before genetic cheapiosity is transcended by sheer bank account power.  As someone who is particularly stingy myself, it is of course necessary to ascertain an answer to this question in order to make an informed decision on whether I can be bothered to buy a lottery ticket (and thus get rich).  If I’m still going to be a stingy cunt, I might aswell stay poor.  Waste of time.

I wonder if Smerch would have been cheap enough to do what I did this morning.  Drifting upon some likely world conquering daydream (being someone who has won every major title in his mind), I discovered that I had infact poured the contents of the tuna tin I intended to consume into the bowl of oats I also intended to consume.  Not in parallel, though.  In series.   After enjoying a good old fashioned titter, the stingyness kicked in.

So here I am, sitting here, writing this drivel, trying desperately to get through a bowl of tuna, oats and milk.  The milk was of course added after the grim realisation.  I still felt that milk would enhance the wicked concoction.  I was not wrong.

A Bit of a Bump Down

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I have been finding it quite difficult to look at the front of this page recently.  I have now finally isolated the cause.

Not the LOL swastika.

Not the bare chest.

It’s the stars on that arm.

I can’t stands em!

I’m not old – but thinking for a moment about the oldschool cliche “barbwire bicep” tattoo of days gone by, I can’t feeling that all the forgotten warriors of earlier eras, for instance, the ones with the classic anchor on their wrist – I doubt they regret it quite so much as more recent owners will.  I mean, I don’t think barbwire or random stars are going to make a revival.  Still – that’s fairly obvious.  Since it is obvious, consider getting a thoroughly more original “I HAVE NO SOUL”: trampstamped on you.  It’s everything you’d want in a tattoo – original and soul-less.  Perfect.

On the LOL swastika tattoo

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LOL indeed

What a conversation starter.

Given the choice (between death and a tattoo) I’d take this over barb wire, tribals (I am translucent white, the only tribe I belong to is the moontan crew) or any other cliche “wall” images (see stars on arm for reference), any day.  A barb wire bicep is embarassment you have to live with for the rest of your life.  At least this is/was original.

Of course, it’s almost certainly fake – no 70kg geek (see collarbones) is going to be able to take on the responsibility of defending the type of outrage it’ll incite from people who desperately need outrage in their life.

Get Real

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Ohh righteous indignation!  Bones to pick! Rage-Ale to imbibe!

I’m quite the fan of cosmology (you know, tarot and whatnot) but I do especially tire of people’s (that is, useless superlative-toting cunts) incessant use of descriptions such as “nearly over” as a cutesy way of expressing “fucking ages, but not on a cosmic scale”.

The earth is going to be unhabitable in 2 billion years?  Nearly Over?

Don’t get me wrong.  Scientists (and I accept, the originator of this link) are quite welcome to make use of such language because care is always taken to be contextual, but, isn’t it terribly quaint how at the second and third levels of communication these concepts tend to degrade further and further into astronomical exaggeration?  How many times have I had to read tripe using similar source material where now, the headline is “Scientist Predict End of Earth Soon”? Somewhere about halfway, maybe three quarters (real slippery wanker territory, that) into the article, the shithead talentless “copy and paste/sensationalist drone” makes a reluctant retraction, thus largely invaliding their actual intended insinuation.  Never mind, you bought the paper or you clicked on the link.  Mission accomplished.

Sure, your soulless drivel sells advertising imprints, but let’s face it, you’re just another version of the lawyer.  A big, fat, exaggerating liar.  You’re contributing to the detriment of society by fevering the ignorance of the many.   Case in point, the furore surrounding the LHC creating a black hole.  Newspapers reporting imminent doom, knowing full well that at the very least, COLLISION of particles is required, something was never intended to be tested on that fateful day when half the world (that is, the ones who matter – the ones with wallets) carefully scrutinised their horoscope, scanning for any hints of singularities in today’s (un) lucky numbers.

Silly me, letting the truth get in the way of a good bit of mass hysteria.

I respect that in some cases, this type of practice is genuine in intent, but it’s mostly trying to be just a little more grandiose, a bit more dangerous.  Isn’t danger tasty?  Is fake danger?  Not to me, it just makes us insular fools who strike out at anything remotely resembling “threat”?

A turban, he’s got a fucking turban on his head!  Man the machine guns, left rudder, quick to starboard!

I wonder if in times to come, people will look back on these times of cosmic “enlightenment” and marvel at how everything was expressed in the language of the doomsday.  That is, in thousands of years, when it’s still a couple of billion years until “the doomsday” scenario occurs.  Morons.