For those of you have seen the film 'Idiocracy', I need not explain. For those of you that have not, go and watch it or read a plot summary: I don't have time to relay the whole damn film to you.
Anyway, the plot in a nutshell is that it's the 26th century and only the stupid have bred so everyone on the planet makes Fern Cotton look like Leonardo Da Vinci.
While this may seem a harrowing possibility, you have to ask: aren't we already there? It is the belief of this house (more of a flat now I've been going to the gym) that we currently live in such an intellectual dystopia.
I don't want to bang on about the 'decline of language' or 'the effects of television on today's youth' or any other such Points of View whiny bullshit. The point is: people are stupid.
Of course, I do not refer to you, most eloquent and firm-buttocked reader, but merely everyone else that pollutes our daily lives with their Jesus placards, Jesus sandals, or 'Jesus what do you mean I gave you the wrong change?' Basically, anything prefixed by Jesus is a pain in the proverbial.
But look around you. You are probably surrounded by people who think that chemicals are bad in your food (although everything is a chemical and it's precisely chemical reactions in our body that stop us from dying. Of course, some chemicals are bad but... you get the idea.) There's probably someone in your building right now listening to Alexandra Burke, or other children's music. You may even be unlucky enough to know someone who thought 'Mr. Bean's Holiday' was a cinematic triumph.
I have met people who haven't heard of Stephen Fry, some who cannot understand a word if it isn't written phonetically, and others who think that making small talk with strangers about the build of pigeons is a demonstration of articulate social interaction. I should add that it is not.
At its lowest level, small talk is the type of everyday stupidity that we are supposed to tolerate. While small talk may be useful with a close friend to get the conversation going, surely if you have something to say then you should open with that. It's no good saying "nice weather, isn't it? Oh, by the way, that result came back positive you're going to want to get yourself checked out." And, also, when is "I went out today and saw a man get hit by a lorry and it took hours to get his brain out of my hair" inferior to chit-chat about the traffic?
Naturally, being British, we all have an urge to talk all the time, as though any lapse in conversation reflects badly on our penis-size, but it doesn't. Silence is awkward, but infinitely superior to conversations you've had a million times before. We all bemoan the adverts for forcing us to watch them over and over, yet we positively welcome it in conversation.
So, I would recommend if someone says 'nice weather, isn't it?', rather than responding 'yes, very' you answer the question with something interesting but irrelevant. After all, if you are doing an exam in Geography and it asks you about China but you only know about France, you start your answer 'China is not like France in that...' Do it; it's interesting, fun, and you might just get some stimulating conversation from it. When someone makes the gambit "it's a nice day, isn't it?" why not answer "I've not noticed; I had sex on ecstasy last night and it could piss it down and I would still be beaming."
Even with friends: don't chit-chat! Enrich one another with the gems of knowledge you have picked up. Or, if you are blessed with a particularly sharp mind why not replace sensible converation with wit? Hours can be spent between friends just revelling in the delicious wordplay and sardonic interplay that can occur in a relaxed environment when you light a scented candle.
To move up the ladder of stupidity we must look at the kind of jaw-dropping ignorance that could make even Katie Price shit herself with shock. These instances are rare, granted, but do not happen as seldom as we might be persuaded into believing by such newspapers as the Times. Yuppie culture, for instance, is a microcosm of ignorance. The rushing Londoner with his hard-edged briefcase can be a stunningly obtuse creation. So I have devised a game. It is called 'Yuppie Stalling' and the aim of the game is to slow down your chosen yuppie. This can be done simply by walking slowly in front of him, by dropping things in his path, or by walking in a group of three down a narrow street just ahead of said yuppie.
However capitalist and nauseating yuppie-culture is, nothing takes gold for stupidity but Religion.
Organised religion is a horror to behold. We are contantly being told that God is somewhere waiting for us to find him. Well, excuse me if I don't have time for hide and seek, but if I can't be arsed to look for that pound that I dropped behind the sofa, God may be waiting a little while. Also, when you have a body like mine it is surely blasphemy to say that God made us in his image, and, if you look at the face of the late Jade Goody, such a claim will probably land you an eternity in a lake of fire.
Personal belief has to be tolerated in order for us to be free and flourishing people, but Religion en masse (excuse the pun) spreads arrogant claims of knowledge about the afterlife, a moral superiority complex, and an intolerance to the beliefs and lifestyles of others.
You may, by some miracle (which is more likely coincidence), survived thus far without encountering such people. You may have grown up in an intellectual but bohemian hothouse of culture and drugs. But you will see. Even in the most rudimentary interactions we are doomed to suffer the substandard intellects of others. From those that simply do not know, to (worse) those that just don't want to know, they are everywhere. Some people can apply themselves to certain tasks and acquire quite a mass of qualifications but be the most insufferably moronic lumps of flesh. Some people cannot think unless it is requested of them. Some people will break into your flat just to switch off an alarm, or make comments that are neither amusing nor beneficial to anyone, or tut at you on a tram for not giving up your seat even though you got there first, or make mountains out of molehills when you don't wash a plate. And there are some people that think it is funny to laugh at people who are different.
However, fear ye not. There is a solution. Cut them out. Do not talk to them, don't smile at them, don't ask them round for coffee. Be polite, be courteous, put them down when they get too pompous, and leave it there. We don't have long to live, so why waste this precious time on the unworthy? Drink life to the lees, spit out the dickheads, and have a blast. After all, a night in with a good record, a strong cup of Masala tea, and the last few chapters of some glittering, gistening, and even gistering novel is far favourable to a night with a wanker.
Of course, the pinnacle of happiness can be found in the company of a person (or persons) that is never dull, nor witless, nor rude, but rather an opulant personality with interesting trivia longing to be gleaned, delectable foils of wit waiting to pierce the starched shirt-front of your humour, and wide-eyed, breathtaking observations that will make you curl your toes in pleasure. Most people are cunts, get used to it and start living life.
Wednesday
17 Again
I am currently watching Zac Efron in the American trash teen film, 17 Again. Having bought this affront to the film industry for a fiver at Tesco, I thought that the opportunity to watch the querilous man-boy that is Efron run around shirtless for two hours was money well spent.
I plan to blog as I watch the film, making comments each time the film becomes annoying. I suspect this will be a long, long post, as I am four minutes in and already incensed enough to have begun my online tirade.
The film opens with the teen heart-throb throwing balls into a hoop. Shirtless. Surprise, surprise. Unfortunately he looks like a doll, and as I am not an agalmatophile, that does not do anything for me. Also, the witless and painfully American dialogue (the coach even refers to the basketball team as 'jockstraps'. HOMOEROTIC SUBTEXT!) is not aided by a charmless performance by the ailing actor (actually probably in his thirties) masquerading as a young-looking 17-year-old. The absence of any form of script is evidenced by the arse-achingly clicheed choreography of the dance routine done by the cheerleaders that Efron mysteriously knows and joins in on, looking like the smug wanker he is.
At 4 minutes, Efron's girlfriend (blonde, of course) imparts some unfortunate news that we do not hear. Just as well, as the dialogue is so bad it makes my eyes bleed. What follows is an obvious shift to grey tinted camera stuff (as Efron's acting is clearly not up to conveying worry). His massive burden (probably that his bitch is pregnant with his smug doll-children) affects his basketball. But oh no! The scout is in and he has to play well in order to get a full basketball scholarship (although I resent the term 'scholarship' being used about sports). Some dramatic tension was - I think - supposed to be created as his simpering whore delayed telling him, saying 'this is your night. Go enjoy the game'. What a sensitive little slut. Efron (who, it is rumoured, has never grown pubic hair) insists she tells him - the reason seems to be that his character is wholesome, awesome, and absolutely the sort of person all stupid American girls will fall in love with immediately, due to his ceaseless conformity to good family values. Makes me sick. Will return in a mo to see if my prediction that she's pregnant (if this film actually has a twist and isn't morosely predictable I will eat my own scrotum in a hollandaise sauce) is correct...
Ah-hah! Everyone is now screaming at Efron (in slow-mo, of course) and he is looking at his girlfriend who is clutching her womb like it's just about to drop right out. Ah, the subtle nuances of this film, really, I might weep. And now the scout is shaking his head just in case the audience don't pick up on the massive pressure weighing down on Efron's (really rather sweaty) shoulders. Also, the music is so dramatic I am expecting Bambi's mother to burst on to the screen and be gunned down. Horns blaring semitones. This is so tense I might actually have a breakdown.
And now Efron, facing his responsibilities, throws the ball over his shoulder which the camera films bouncing in slo-mo as the horns still oscilate between their two notes of woe.
Then, Efron chases down his loose-moralled (and loose-cunted) girlfriend, declaring that the baby is his future. He kisses her (which is kinda sexy) and then trumpets begin a silly little fanfare leading into…
A contrasting scene. Matthew Perry of Friends fame is asleep. Then, ho-ho, he is having breakfast with a man dressed as a Vulcan. Hilarious! Then, there is the obligatory reference to American brands (in this case a cereal called ‘Cap’n Crunch’. A small joke is made about this bastion of American popular culture and the film continues where, through impeccable dialogue, it is made transparently clear that the protagonist’s life has gone to shit. I kid, you not. The lines ‘Scarlet kicking you out the house and the kids wanting nothing to do with you’ are just subtly crowbarred in there. When will America develop some sense of taste?
And – get this – Perry works for a pharmaceutical company. Nothing like American’s to glorify capitalism. I am almost expecting some form of terrible erection joke. Oh, wait, there already is! ‘Maybe a four hour erection isn’t such a bad thing.’ This is milked (pardon the expression) even further, by a woman in the office writing ‘erection – good ’ and yes, she really did do the smiley face.
Perry is expecting a promotion. The massive build up before it is announced means he won’t get it. Perry sits looking smug and making asides to those around him implying he will get it. But he won’t. Oh no.
29 minutes in. Perry has transformed into a teenager due to the wishes of his spirit guide. After a hugely illogical and unnecessary fight scene, there is now a montage of Efron clips. Mainly just him strutting round as girls lay their ovaries in lust. I hate him. What an absolute, total wanker. His car was horrible as well. So nah-nah nah-nah-nah. That told him.
At 40 minutes I have had enough. This film is too bad to watch in one go.
I plan to blog as I watch the film, making comments each time the film becomes annoying. I suspect this will be a long, long post, as I am four minutes in and already incensed enough to have begun my online tirade.
The film opens with the teen heart-throb throwing balls into a hoop. Shirtless. Surprise, surprise. Unfortunately he looks like a doll, and as I am not an agalmatophile, that does not do anything for me. Also, the witless and painfully American dialogue (the coach even refers to the basketball team as 'jockstraps'. HOMOEROTIC SUBTEXT!) is not aided by a charmless performance by the ailing actor (actually probably in his thirties) masquerading as a young-looking 17-year-old. The absence of any form of script is evidenced by the arse-achingly clicheed choreography of the dance routine done by the cheerleaders that Efron mysteriously knows and joins in on, looking like the smug wanker he is.
At 4 minutes, Efron's girlfriend (blonde, of course) imparts some unfortunate news that we do not hear. Just as well, as the dialogue is so bad it makes my eyes bleed. What follows is an obvious shift to grey tinted camera stuff (as Efron's acting is clearly not up to conveying worry). His massive burden (probably that his bitch is pregnant with his smug doll-children) affects his basketball. But oh no! The scout is in and he has to play well in order to get a full basketball scholarship (although I resent the term 'scholarship' being used about sports). Some dramatic tension was - I think - supposed to be created as his simpering whore delayed telling him, saying 'this is your night. Go enjoy the game'. What a sensitive little slut. Efron (who, it is rumoured, has never grown pubic hair) insists she tells him - the reason seems to be that his character is wholesome, awesome, and absolutely the sort of person all stupid American girls will fall in love with immediately, due to his ceaseless conformity to good family values. Makes me sick. Will return in a mo to see if my prediction that she's pregnant (if this film actually has a twist and isn't morosely predictable I will eat my own scrotum in a hollandaise sauce) is correct...
Ah-hah! Everyone is now screaming at Efron (in slow-mo, of course) and he is looking at his girlfriend who is clutching her womb like it's just about to drop right out. Ah, the subtle nuances of this film, really, I might weep. And now the scout is shaking his head just in case the audience don't pick up on the massive pressure weighing down on Efron's (really rather sweaty) shoulders. Also, the music is so dramatic I am expecting Bambi's mother to burst on to the screen and be gunned down. Horns blaring semitones. This is so tense I might actually have a breakdown.
And now Efron, facing his responsibilities, throws the ball over his shoulder which the camera films bouncing in slo-mo as the horns still oscilate between their two notes of woe.
Then, Efron chases down his loose-moralled (and loose-cunted) girlfriend, declaring that the baby is his future. He kisses her (which is kinda sexy) and then trumpets begin a silly little fanfare leading into…
A contrasting scene. Matthew Perry of Friends fame is asleep. Then, ho-ho, he is having breakfast with a man dressed as a Vulcan. Hilarious! Then, there is the obligatory reference to American brands (in this case a cereal called ‘Cap’n Crunch’. A small joke is made about this bastion of American popular culture and the film continues where, through impeccable dialogue, it is made transparently clear that the protagonist’s life has gone to shit. I kid, you not. The lines ‘Scarlet kicking you out the house and the kids wanting nothing to do with you’ are just subtly crowbarred in there. When will America develop some sense of taste?
And – get this – Perry works for a pharmaceutical company. Nothing like American’s to glorify capitalism. I am almost expecting some form of terrible erection joke. Oh, wait, there already is! ‘Maybe a four hour erection isn’t such a bad thing.’ This is milked (pardon the expression) even further, by a woman in the office writing ‘erection – good ’ and yes, she really did do the smiley face.
Perry is expecting a promotion. The massive build up before it is announced means he won’t get it. Perry sits looking smug and making asides to those around him implying he will get it. But he won’t. Oh no.
29 minutes in. Perry has transformed into a teenager due to the wishes of his spirit guide. After a hugely illogical and unnecessary fight scene, there is now a montage of Efron clips. Mainly just him strutting round as girls lay their ovaries in lust. I hate him. What an absolute, total wanker. His car was horrible as well. So nah-nah nah-nah-nah. That told him.
At 40 minutes I have had enough. This film is too bad to watch in one go.
Tuesday
50 Cent Reveals he Wants to Punch Kanye West in the Face
50 Cent has recently gone onto American television (dressed in the uniform of bling and hit-dat-esque linen) and mentioned in an interview that he would like to punch Kanye West in the face for his treatment of talentless wailer Taylor Swift. Or, more accurately, he said 'balck his eye.' Now, I don't know if Mr. Cent has looked at Kanye West recently, but it seems to have passed him by that Mr. West's eyes are already black.
Hot, hot, HOT celebrity news site perezhilton.com said 'how 50 Cent fervently (and surprisingly eloquently), talks about what Kanye did to Taylor.' We at the thought flannel speculate that Americans are, firstly, easily surprised, and secondly, don't have a fucking clue what eloquence means.
In the video, Mr. Cent claims that he has been overlooked in 13 Grammy nominations beacause he told the hard truth (in a way that the Americans might think of as 'eloquent'). We at the thought flannel think he has, in actuality, been overlooked beacuase he is shit.
In 2004, the fiscally-named artist was not chosen to win the award, as Evanescence won best newcomer. He boasts fo how many records he has sold. Unfortunately, he seems to have overlooked that Grammy judges do not give out prizrs based on record sales, but on talent. Bless.
Having watched the above film, if you would like to kill yourself, do feel free to, but the Thought Falnnel is not held responsible for injury caused by reading this blog.
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