|:neutralising the pH level:|: March 2005

29.3.05

BECKINGHAM PALACE-UPON-ENGLANDOM IS CRUMBLING

Bricktop351 says:
I can’t believe it’s happening again. It’s like a terrible, recurring nightmare and I feel helpless, like I’m strapped into a straightjacket while sitting in the passenger seat of a car driven at excessive speed by Dennis Rodman. Lord, please get me out of this nightmare and help restore a semblance of balance into my otherwise meaningless life. Please, I don’t ask you for much, so hear my call just this fucking once. Will ya at least listen, huh?

Why, oh, why, dear Lord, does the paparazzi have to pick on the Beckhams so much? I mean, they’re the world’s primera liga family with so much talent between them; a shining beacon that guides packs of talentless lepers like myself into a direction where quality, artistic endeavour and righteousness are more than mere bedfellows. If we take a quick look at what the Beckhams have done – for me, for you, for the people of this world; the followers and the sheep – during the course of our friendship, I think you’ll agree that they’re deservingly in my good books:

Firstly, Lady Vikki and her band, the Spicy Vertical Slits, taught me the meaning of true friendship. They were right by each others side during potentially tumultuous times and tumultuous times, such as Gerry - Pass-The-Cheese - Hallibebkenofne’s self-confessed obsession with the ’80s fad of starving yourself stupid. If she had even the slightest clue, she would have realised that she didn’t need to starve in order to become stupid, but that’s another conundrum for the ages.

Secondly, Sir Davo taught me that playing football [or fussball, as I prefer to call it] wasn’t about how well the individual could do but how well the team could do; something that he proved every time he laced up his boots and stepped onto any hallowed pitch [or fussball diamond, as I prefer to call it].

Thirdly, the Senior Beckhams [i.e. Lady Vikki and Sir Davo] taught me that bestowing original names to my children was the one and only chosen path to take whenever considering the appropriate way to go about ensuring a taunt-free future for the spawn - any spawn. None of this traditional Kylie, Broomhilda, Agatha, Fontleroy, D’artagnan, Adolf, Rumpelstiltskin or Wayne crap for either the Senior Beckhams or yours truly, thank you very muchly, coz I couldn’t stand the thought of my kids getting the fuck teased out of them for having names like Michelle, Tracy, Claudia or Kelly. It has to be something unique; a name with shazzam and gusto and likely repercussion should you utter it in any manner other than originally intended. And I like that.

I can’t imagine what my life would have been like if my parents hadn’t called me Bricktop. For all I know, I could be just another cretin with a flaccid-cock name like Steve, Jerry, Michael, Barry, Trevor, Bruce, Paul, Matthew, Mark, Luke or – God help us all – John. Hi, my name’s John and I have a long shlong. More like Hi, my name’s John and I am cockless. To all the Johns out there, suck on it until it spurts and you drown in its flavoursome juices, you cockless fucks - and thank your parents for ensuring your status as a sheep is forever ingrained into the annals of history.

Oh, man, I’m feeling sick to my stomach just thinking about having an ordinary name. New train of thought arriving... NOW...

So, they’re at it again – the paparazzi, that is – sticking it to the Beckhams like they were some unyielding news gathering force to be taken seriously [the CUNTS], only this time, they’ve stirred the pot of patience by snapping away at the miniaturised Beckhams; the Senior Beckham’s sacred spawn and future heirs to the throne of Beckinham Palace-upon-Englandom.

And that’s totally uncalled for and, well, let’s face facts, Charlie, fucked from where I’m masturbating from. It’s balls-up-front not on to mess with people’s spawn. It’s sickening, uncalled for, unprofessional, irrational, barbaric, heresy, dogma, Jay and Silent Bob, Ben Affleck, overacting, 90210, Donna, talentless... Whoa! I just completely went on a word association rampage without even realising it. Damned are these super fast typing fingers of mine.

Where was I? Ah, yes, the 90-minute extravaganza of the Paparazzi vs the Beckham Spawn on a fussball diamond at an undisclosed location somewhere in Spain. I’m of the firm belief that a man’s woman - and spawn, in order to make this post work - should remain sacred and free from prying sets of eyes, such as those belonging to balless, soulless paparazzi pricks. It is a documented fact that nothing positive can come from paparazzi or the photos they excrete and that they are, in fact, a scourge on humanity greater and more potent than chimpanzees that attack or Velcro sneakers. I have two examples to convert you into a believer: Ladi Di[e] and Paris Hilton. The paparazzi killed one and gave birth to the other. This should not, cannot and won’t be tolerated.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the recent encounter with the paparazzi will have a detrimental effect on Sir Davo and his fussball playing team philosophy and I’m also willing to bet my entire week’s guest appearance wages that Sir Davo will reject virtually every advertisement offer placed under his nose because of this very incident.

Dr Dog Chop, are you in the heeeeeeyause?

Dr Dog Chop says:
IMOVHO the Beckhams deserve nothing short of impalement closely followed by sheep-dipping in Castlemaine XXXX.

In part, I am left no alternative but to agree – If the press didn’t hound them so much then I wouldn’t have to hear about them. In exchange of the paparazzi I am more in favour of sending some German Shepherds to hound them instead. Obviously for someone as talentless as yourself (and the good books you spoke of were pretty clearly written by someone else) they are a shining example...

I am certainly very happy to be the one to inform you that you have been sadly deceived. The Spice Girls forsooth! They were merely puppets for my very good friend Svengali Spice, agents created for the purposes of numerous acts of media terrorism. I know for a fact that you were gulled into buying a pink sparkly T-shirt with “Girl Power” emblazoned on the front. No doubt all those girls out there felt tremendously powerful after imbibing the empty-headed sentiments of five infant intellects. I have it on good authority that the song writer for the group was actually an eight-year-old girl. If you choose any one given lyric by said group this fact will become instantly apparent.

I have to concede the second point about Dave, though. The man has very well placed his own interests behind those of the team – not once did he ever worry about impressing with his skills when he could have been promoting some product. The team you were referring to was the marketing team, wasn’t it? Christ alone knows why, but the man makes more from modeling and advertising than he does from Soccer (Football to those who know). His complete lack of personal consideration has allowed him to put his soul on the auction block again and again. I salute him for it! And now he is offering his kids up too!

Well, now for the big one – names and children. I am in a bit over my head here. My experiences of naming have been limited exclusively to cats. In these circumstances, names like Tony and Dave have served surprisingly well. Now that I come to think of it, perhaps the reverse would work quite well. You should drop a note to your mate Dave and tell him to call his next sprog Tiddles or Chester.

In fact, it is quite possible that they don’t know the difference. Neither parent is terribly gifted when it comes to the more sublime aspects of life. For them these things include changing light-bulbs and opening vacuum-packed ready meals. To cope more efficiently with the pop-star life both had their higher brain functions removed and now most daily aspects are governed by their spinal columns, like a jelly fish. It is quite possible that they haven’t spotted that certain types of objects are grouped with certain kinds of names. Thus places have place names, and people have real names like Fontleroy and Ronald.

Everybody knew someone at school whose parents had wished some frightful name upon them. What happened? Within their limited sphere of influence they become famous, often having random strangers point and laugh at them. Your mate Frank Zappa had this one down to a tee. By giving your spawn names out of the ordinary you are inviting the world into your living room. So if some kind of premonition of this series of events did not manage to penetrate their understanding then they clearly deserve to have the horrors of a media incursion visited upon them as a lesson to the rest of the world: Do not be so dense!

But dear Bricktop, I am surprised at you! You would wager a whole 2.5 Australian Dollars on the matter? Your sum total of guest appearances for this week being limited to your trial as clown at a burger restaurant we all know. However will you feed your newborn son Tokyo if you loose?

Bricktop351 has the final say:
That scrawny little midget can sing for his supper for all I care. He’s not getting his vice-like grip on my guest appearance money. I’m not even 100% convinced that he’s mine; he only has three toes, you know? What I’m more concerned about is my girls, Unleaded and Bumblebee-Frangipani. I’m teaching them daily about the ways of the world and sending them to self-defence classes using household objects so they’ll be more than ready to meet boys for the first time.

23.3.05

ANGER MANAGEMENT 101

Ladies and gentlefags, it is my honour to introduce to you for the first time on the world wide web of deceit, a man who has long made a name for himself in monthly healthcare magazines, university lecture papers and in the files of police agencies in eight different countries, Dr Dog Chop. Renowned proctologist, metallurgist, paediatrician and survivor of no less than three shark attacks in the past decade, Dr Dog Chop is one of the UK’s foremost experts on tax avoidance and prefers his Bloody Marys with small doses of freshly shaved pubic hair from fashion models. Raise a bottle and drop your pants for Dr Dog Chop…

Dr Dog Chop says:
Anger Management… Why do we need this? What I need is fool management training. What am I talking about? Let me give you an example or two.

You are on the escalator. There are people on the machine behind you but some eldritch demon has possessed the family at the bottom. How can I tell? They have stopped at the bottom to discuss where they are going. How stupidly ignorant is that? How utterly, utterly bereft of thought they must be. The way to manage this kind of fool is extermination – the death of a thousand cuts is barely good enough.

You are in an important room with big red buttons. Also present is a half-wit, who presses a button to see what happens. The solution here – Hollow buttons with safety locks. If pressed before being disarmed they fire an excrement smeared nail through the offending hand.

You are driving a big car down a straight road. There is a cyclist on one side of the road (possibly holding an open umbrella or an active phone in one hand). In a moment of rank idiocy the cyclist cycles across the road a couple of meters in front of your car, without looking. Two choices – brake or not. Only one choice there – the gene pool will be infinitely richer without these primordial genes and the carbon can be put to a better use making plants.

So the point I make is this: The anger is a symptom, not a cause. I propose a plan under three main headings.

Birth control
Under no circumstances should these people be allowed to multiply. The children always prove to be greater than the sum of the parts of their parents. So we will have kids stopping halfway down the escalator they have already stopped by pressing the button, of course on their bikes.

Special quarantine areas
Some places can brook no stupidity so they need security. Any doubtful cases are to be challenged with loud explosions to test for awareness and logic tests which have multiple choice questions, as below.

You are snowboarding. You want to stop halfway down. You should stop:
A) at the side of the course
B) in the middle of the course at the narrowest point after a blind corner in a large group
C) anywhere you like
D) right in front of the entrance/exit to a ski-lift.

These questions are included in the driving test in the UK but they only count for 1 mark. I think if you get such blindingly obvious questions wrong you should fail outright.

Legislation
Like in France, where they have an extra plea in cases of murder, etc., we should have some kind of system to stop us ending up in prison as a result of someone else’s folly. There is also the possibility of a counter-plea of double stupidity or “The blind (to reason) leading the blind (to reason)” clause.

The punishment for this might be literally enough rope to hang oneself as a way of combating miscarriages of justice.

We will be putting this to the vote, so any “for” or “against” arguments should go in the comments section. Any againsts had better be good.

Bricktop351 says:
If I read you correctly, Dr Dog Chop, and I think I do, then what you’re suggesting is these Mallrat-type purveyors of annoying others aren’t on your list of What’s Hot and Groovy for the month of March and that something should be done about them, right? Well, if you’d be so pretentious enough to allow me to retort, for your lack of sensibility has been alarmingly obvious since you put fingertip to keyboard, which feels like eternity in damnation from where I sit, you rabid, ill-conceived, frog in a blender, you [no offence intended].

Firstly, if the mall, shopping centre, department store, whatever the fuck you wanna call this place of seeing and being seen while absorbing the atmosphere of said divine concrete jungle isn’t for the foolhardy and slow-on-the-uptake then what is? Fuck you, the donkey you rode into town on and the children that are currently looking at you like the paedophile that you are. I go to shopping centres purely for that reason; to discuss life and how to piss people off as close to the escalators – and elevators, for that matter – as possible. If I’m in an ultra superior mood, say, when my Wonder Woman undies aren’t littered with skid marks from having consumed too many burritos during that week, then I’ll even go one better by fucking off the elderly, the easily annoyed – you’re now a prime target – and the unhappily single folks among us by spreading my presence at the entrance and exit doors. This location is a favourite of mine and whenever I get dirty looks or disgruntled comments like, ‘Can’t you find a better place to get in people’s way, you fat dickhead’? I’m compelled to answer in the negative as it really is the most annoying place to be.

Maestro, if you’ll allow me to address the second can of worms that your hands so deftly opened. I’m in full agreement with your ‘excrement smeared nail through the offending hand’ sentiment and think it should be enforced globally before the end of the current working week. Bravo, old chap! Puff on this [turns to face the wall and extends brown-centred entity which looks remarkably like his anus].

Thirdly, I am of the opinion that a person on a bicycle – whether he or she is in possession of a mobile phone or not – should be free to peddle wearily wherever the fucking hell they want. In fact, they should have a 360-degree right of way in three dimensions. As a victim of a brutal attack while riding my treadley home under the guidance of a severe dose of marijuana mixed with tequila, and then having my buzz removed faster than a stripper’s bra at a Buck’s Night as I was smashed into what felt like several pieces by a 17-year-old chick who just happened to be changing a George Michael tape and didn’t see me minding my own business, I say give cyclists the road – the entire width and length in every direction – and get cars back to where they belong: in a showroom. I’m sick to death of hearing goody-two-shoed fucks like yourself [no offence] proclaiming that cyclists get in the way and that if they don’t wish to be squished that they should get out of the way. All I can say to that notion is bullshit, Gringo.

Bull-fucken-shit-fucken-crap, Nigger… Not on my watch! Use some legpower, you pussy [no offence intended, for we are privileged and honoured to have your expert commentary], and take a deep breath to get the full effect of life without cars. It’s like going down on a pot of Brazilian coffee as soon as your pecker’s awake – a life changing experience for the better and one that you’re unlikely to forget anytime soon.

Fourthly, you lost me with your next point or points, I couldn’t care which, since I didn’t detect any animosity in your words or profanity whatsoever. Underlined headers and sequenced letters in closed-ended brackets don’t impress me, so unless you’re willing to provide nude sketches of what you’re trying to sell, I’d say the goose is well and truly cooked. Maybe our readership disagrees. Maybe it doesn't. Where's the litmus paper, bro?

Your opinion matters, so why not make a complete tit out of yourself by showing us your lack of grammatical poise and leaving a comment. We're not quite at the stage where we're willing to place How To Vote pamphlets onto the site, but do your best to leave a lasting impression; be it positive or negatory. Leave a comment, leave a suggestion, leave a tip, but whatever you do, don’t sit there in silence. Georgie Porgie Dubyah Bush’s [s]pies are tuned into silence and they can sniff out the smell of fear.

16.3.05

SPAM TASTES LIKED CANNED MEAT

Bricktop351 says:
Many years ago, when friends, well wishers and complete strangers were learning the intricacies of designing and building web sites, I was too busy using the medium as a source of porn. I figured why pay for something as super important and regular in my life as porn freshly squeezed off the shelf when it is freely available whenever I left-clicked the mouse and on my computer in case I wanted to reminisce about the good times whenever I right-clicked the mouse? Besides, the stuff on the shelf -- the Playboys and Penthouses and Hustlers of the world -- are about as stimulating as watching my grandma [rest her soul] bend down to pick a flower; and I never got a chubby over silicon tits and airbrushed curves. I faced facts early on and got over the hurdle of whether or not to splash my semen in the general direction of magz. Gimme flesh -- pink, brown, black, green, whatever -- but leave the art to the artists.

What I’m trying to confess here, in a round about kind of way, is that I’m a useless tool when it comes to the know-how and understanding of all things associated with web sites. I mean, sure, I can get a site up and running @ Blogspot, but if I allowed the mushrooms in my backyard to develop long enough instead of drying them out and having a fuckload of fun at their expense, I’d be willing to bet that they could also start up a web site @ Blogspot.

Yeah, I missed the train to Web Site Central and I can’t be bothered, even if farmers prodded me up the date with their finest tool of persuasion, to check when the next one’s due. It’s just not something that I’m willing to waste invaluable time over, not when there’s so much quality information out there to absorb, if you know what I mean.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a huge fan of the medium, as I can waste countless hours sitting behind the wheel of my 19” monitor, watching the world go by while applauding the rising new stars of the porn industry as they take another one from every member of the team in places that’ll ensure their ongoing fame, but I’m stumped about one aspect of this medium. Well, in all fairness to being honest with all you boring blogging cunts [‘I woke up this morning and I was in such a foul mood.’ Do go on. It’s riveting to this point. ‘I found out my ex-girlfriend’s female lover was pregnant with her baby.’ Yeah, this shit’s really getting interesting. Please continue. ‘And then I realised it was all just a bad dream.’ Phew! Lucky or what? ‘And that I had accidentally got to sleep twenty minutes past my bedtime last night, which was the cause of my bad dream.’ Yeah? Shit, it was just beginning to get… SNORE!], I’m stumped by more than one aspect, but I’ll only talk about one aspect for now coz I know how short attention spans are, even mine. Look, that dog has a puffy tail!

Today I’d like to inform you of -- and ask for your opinion on -- why there is so much shit entering my inbox. I know it’s not exactly a topic that’ll grind the world to a standstill or cause volcanoes around the world to erupt unexpectedly, as we collectively search for the answer to this baffling question, but it’s really got me puzzled, and I don’t puzzle very often.

The puzzling part isn’t the fact that there’s so much unwanted shit in my inbox, as I’ve known for years the length to which advertising gurus [a.k.a. spineless twats] will go to in order to get their unwanted products under our noses and into our existence [fuck them all randomly with a blunt juice extractor]. I appreciate advertising companies’ artistic merits about as much as I appreciate pizza without topping or a glass of orange juice without LSD. What’s got me scratching my balls and sniffing my fingers is this:

I get shit in my inbox; the content of which is irrelevant because I don’t give a fuck if someone unknown to me is trying to sell powdered water or a replica of Beyonce’s snatch, complete with simulated smell and taste that would persuade Elton John to switch teams. The fact remains, I just don’t bite those kinds of carrots. Promise me $500,000,000 if only I click the link in the email and I won’t fucking do it. Promise me eternal life, a 95cm schlong and all the poontang my tongue can master -- and it would have to be a bottomless giant cup of poontang -- and I won’t click that fucking link.

So, I try to do the next best thing, rather than simply throwing the message into the trash as any brainless turd and phantom wunderkind like young Billy Gates would do. I try to reply to these unknown fucklings-with-fake-names by using my zest and mild-mannered eccentricities, where I make some snide remark about being remotely, but not wholeheartedly, interested in what they’ve got to sell -- and having more money than an unmarried Arab Sheik on the prowl to throw away on trivial things that I know naught about -- and seconds after I press send on this well-crafted and highly entertaining reply, which frequently gets me giggling like a schoolgirl because of its infinitely intricate web of humour, it comes flooding back quicker than I can jerk off to the sight of Sylvia Saint ramming two fingers up her butt.

I know I’m not quick on the uptake when it comes to understanding these things, as I’ve already confessed, but isn’t there something wrong with this method of advertising?

The Questions I Want Answered Fucking Right Away:
Why can these bitches send me shit, but I can’t send them shit? How is that fucking possible?

Who authorised this and why are they able to get away with it? I want my turn at being a prick at their expense and it’s being rejected before it even has the chance to experience life. Are my fruitless replies the cyber equivalent of an abortion?

Are Gmail, the home of my current email address, and these lowlife cunts that send me these messages in business together?

And, most importantly, WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO PERSON-TO-PERSON INTERACTION [even if it’s computer to computer interaction nowadays]?

The last one’s the most important one to me because I am a huge fan of wasting people’s time -- especially face-to-face. I figure if someone is employed and in a position of authority, like someone at a big corporation or established company who has a fuck-you-I’m-better-than-you attitude –- just like I do -- then they’d better be on the ball when they see me enter a room, coz you can bet yer bottom dollar that my insults and contradictions are intertwined like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.

But, as the late and great Bill Hicks once said, and I’m using this completely out of context, I don’t know anything so there you go.

If you have a theory on how this is happening and how I can prevent it from continuing to happen [don’t tell me WHY; I know why and don’t give a crawling fuck about why], then leave your words of wisdom below.

14.3.05

ASIO's CUNNING PLAN DOESN'T HOLD A CANDLE TO WHAT I'VE GOT IN MIND

Bricktop351 says:
Isn't it comforting to know that the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation [ASIO] has a cunning plan to recruit new, supposedly intelligent, intelligence agents [a.k.a. spies]? I think it is - accentuate the 'is' portion of that statement.

And what's more, ASIO spent AU $750,000 last year on advertising the fact that they're looking for reliable new spies - such as you and I - to join their organisation. Fuck! Wouldn't that be an awesome job? I think it would - accentuate the 'would' portion of that statement. Yes, ladies and frumpy bastards, ASIO has grown and continues to grow, much like a well nurtured garden of delicate flowers, only far more sinister and secretive, as it enters this golden age of spying on our neighbours and, more importantly, members of our own US-arse-kissing country, which I like to call Australia.

The Bible of online information, MSN.com, and my personal choice for ensuring I'm kept abreast of every vital detail of daily ongoings on the place I like to call Earth, has somehow tracked down the fact that this highly secretive organisation is spending dollar after dollar in order to help their quest in obtaining information about you, I, your cat, my dog, your internet habits, the frequency and nature of my porn site surfing, and about everything in between. But, shhhh, don't tell anyone, coz it could result in you becoming one of their prime targets; part of a series of names on a whiteboard like in Homicide: Life On The Street.

And then what's next: intriguingly dressed men in shades following you to the supermarket, jotting down your every purchase [including those highly suspicious eggplants that could cause a breach in our nation's safety] or the same men following you to the pub and noting that you're drinking pint after pint of Guinness and Grolsch and Stella Artois when you could be - and should be - drinking West End Draught.

Jesus! I - accentuate the 'I' portion of that statement - think you're guilty... of something, which I will determine at a later date, preferably once the medication has worn off and you've stopped demanding to know why you're handcuffed.

Where will it end? At what point will these relentless new recruits stop? Will they leave you in peace to go about your daily ritual of waking up, peeing, shitting, showering, drinking coffee, driving to work, sitting at your desk pretending to be busy, taking a peek at Michael Jackson's kiddy porn sites, spending an hour-and-a-half at a liquid lunch, leaving the question of why the Aussies had to lose Matty Hayden and only win by nine wickets dangling in the air, going back to work and asking the ladies if they're interested in participating in the lambada, bowing in front of your co-workers upon leaving work for the day and not realising the giant stain on your trousers until you're opening your car door, driving to the pub [still smashed], driving home [even more smashed than when you left work], watching highly informative news services on telly that keep you 'in the know' and finally collapsing on your bed.

Or will they be there, right by your side, in a manner reminiscent of The Pink Panther, where their presence is obvious but their reason for being there is more clouded than an English summer's day?

I'd like to be an ASIO recruit. Fuck it, I'd like to go a step beyond that and be the ASIO boss and head of this ever growing number of slick and silent spies - or the SSS as I prefer to call them - as I'd have a few plans of my own that would guarantee our nation, which I like to call Australia, becomes the frontrunner of intelligence gathering in the world and not a mere blurry carbon copy of the US model.

Oh, yes, ladies and gentle retards, it's not just a rumour you may have heard on the poisoned grapevine. I have - accentuate the 'have' portion of that statement - devised a list of strategic, ever so cunning plans that would make your skin crawl and your eyes bend inward to a point where you looked like a man who enjoyed fucking your sister. These plans, which I have been writing and adding to since I was old enough to read and write, are more foreboding than any military strategy employed by the current US administration [if that's what you call it] and even more radical and effective than any suicide bomber's strategy. Indeed, my plans are so highly evolved and fundamentally flawless that they would bring any present government, including our own, which I like to call idiots, to its very knees and leave them whimpering like newborns that have been left alone in a 2m by 2m room filled with European Wasps.

Wanna know more? Read on and stand bewildered...

Fuck you! If you think my organisation based on secrets and gathering intelligence advertises openly then you're a bigger slack-jawed fool than my files currently reveal. I'd imagine an update on your profile is urgently required and I proclaim and promise that it shall be updated as soon as I've finished my pint of Guinness and taken an afternoon nap.

Ignore the men in shades when you tuck yourself in. They're there for your and your country's protection. Sleep tight.

[BTW, if you'd like to read the intriguing report MSN came up with, you can do so HERE.]

10.3.05

RUSSELL CROWE'S FBI AGENTS AND I DON'T SEE EYE TO EYE

Bricktop351 says:
I’m a big fan of Russell Crowe. I really am. Ever since I met the man – in person, no less – many moons ago, where he stood up in front of seven people in a small cinema and spent one-and-a-half minutes introducing what was at the time his latest movie, ROMPER STOMPER, I’ve felt The Crow [as I like to call him] has deserved to rise from obscurity and claim the throne that is rightfully his; that of the world’s greatest actor.

I believe The Crow is now at the stage where he’s sat on the throne for quite some time, having won a gold statue or two and been in at least half a dozen movies where his acting prowess has been on show for all to see. Yes, indeed, the boy from New Zealand royalty – for the Crowe name is as close to royalty as NZ has – has done well. Some might even say he’s done good, and we won’t even mention his ability to carry a tune with his enormously talented band, 30 Odd Foot Of Grunts. Man, can those boys rock or what!

When he played that dumpy whistleblower, I applauded his performance. When he played that bumbling genius, I applauded his performance. When he played that gay wrestler, I wondered what the fuck he was talking about most of the time and why everyone thought his performance deserved not only an Academy Award nomination, but the prize itself. That not withstanding, The Crow has matured into one of the finest actors the world has ever seen and I make this generalization a timeless one, where I include every actor dead or yet to be born.

So, bearing this in mind, the question needs to be asked, why then is Russell Crowe such a monumental fuckhead? I mean, for a person who has everything and sundry, Russell ‘Fuck Off’ Crowe has got to be the single most irritating human being on the face of the planet. And when you consider that he currently shares this planet with the likes of Justin Timberlake, 50 Cent [FYI, it’s 50 Cents – plural – you fucking moron], Sylvester Stallone’s mother and that overrated, braindead, talentless, oversized, sloppy whore, Paris Hilton, you get to understand the magnitude of what a monumental fuckhead The Crow is.

In the news recently, our boy Russ claimed that he was targeted as a potential Al Qaeda kidnap victim because Al Qaeda supposedly wanted to show that it was capable of kidnapping a high profile American actor from under the noses of a couple of hundred million people and that Russ has had personal chaperones from the FBI ever since. Russ claims that this status as a potential kidnap target was bestowed upon him in 2001, following his hollow victory as the gay wrestler with a speech impediment, although the story has only now seen the light of day.

Now, I ain’t the world’s foremost brain surgeon, but I’ve been known to tinker with this curious human organ from time to time, particularly other people’s, and I happen to think that this so-called news story deserves some questions asked and preferably answered.

Firstly: How fucking dumb is Al Qaeda? I mean, seriously. These guys flew two fucking planes at stationary targets without even the hint of difficulty, but if Al Qaeda think that Russell Crowe is an American actor, then I’m a British Queen – check under my hem if you don’t believe me. Secondly: 2001, Russ. Two-fucken-thousand-and-fucken-one, Russ. Is this guy so short on publicity all of a sudden that he needs to dredge up something which happened before he started getting the good roles? GLADIATOR was a pile of horse shit that every critic, human being and dog with reproductive organs intact got a hard-on over coz there hadn’t been a big budget movie about gay wrestlers for a fucking long time, but at the end of the day, that movie was a giant turd and the film stock deserved to be burned in front of everyone who made it as a warning to others who might think it a good idea to do movies about Caesar and his cohorts. Thirdly: If Russ enjoys uniformed men in his presence 24 hours a day, then why doesn’t he just come out and say it? Why hide behind this pretense that his life was threatened by people who don’t even know he’s a Kiwi? Fourthly: What’s with the foul-mouthed, gung-ho, ‘I’m the King of the Castle and you ain’t entering my fortress’ attitude, Russ? Do you kiss your mother with that mouth or is it solely reserved for talking like a true wanna-be American hero bad boy, like 50 ‘What Does Plural Mean?’ Cent and Coolio, beyatch? I mean, for fuck’s sake, quit pretending like you’re such a bad arse just because you lifted weights for a few years and think you can tell the world to slurp your sugar coated bumcrack and remember your humble past, where you played limp-wristed roles because you couldn’t get anything remotely interesting or well scripted, you fucking slut, you.

Russell Crowe was an Al Qaeda target in 2001 and the bad boy still has FBI agents guarding him in 2005. That’s on par with Eminem walking around with 108 homeboys guarding his precious life coz everyone wants to dethrone him from whichever imaginary throne he’s sitting on. Get over it already, you fucking hero and start making some decent movies again, fatty.

|:neutralising the pH level:|