Archive for the ‘Sik Kunts’ Category

1. Your profile. BAM!

2. cryptic Status Updates That Look For Attention
“OMG Whoos callin u dude?”
“They know who they are, I’m not going to say anything”


3. See Who Your Biggest Stalker Is apps.
Firstly, none of these things work. Facebook isn’t a list of information that can be manipulated into any combination of teenage neo-faggot apps that deliver the news that the hottest chick in your Facebook Friends list has been secretly checking out your ugly ass photos taken from your mobile phone in your bathroom. It’s Not. Gunna. Happen.

If you think you have no chance on god’s earth with someone, thennnnn ya don’t. OK?

Secondly, if you’re a chick and you have heaps of photos of you flouncing about in undies/nude/duck face poses in your bathroom then you don’t don’t need an app to tell you who’s stalking you, you just need me: EVERY FUCKING DUDE IN YOUR FRIEND LIST. THEY ARE CHECKING OUT YOUR FINE ASS AND BANGING TITTIES. Don’t like it? TAKE DOWN THE SLUT PICS THEN.

4. Serial Likers and Serial Pokers.
Scotty AssassinMc thinks everything is shit and fuck everyone
Puppy Fart *likes this*

5. Saliva Dripping Sleeze Balls That Add Hot Chicks They Don’t Know.
Almost every one of my female mates are drop dead gorgeous. Some of them so much that they are models, which means they put up a lot of their modelling pics. Good for them, I reckon. But then each of the photos they post comes this under it, from people you have never seen or heard of before:

Tom Dickenharry: Helloooo!
Harry Muffdiver: Woah girl! SO HOT lol
Barry Dumbcunt: Man if I was only 50 years younger lol!
John Isreallysmall: Sexy sexy sexy. Wish u wer on my beach! LOL
Random Fuckwit: Hey are those metal earrings? I love metal! We shud cach up and talk metal (meaning I want to rape your ass)


Rule 1: Chicks don’t choose a suitor from Facebook Comments, nor does it turn them on
Rule 2: Chicks like to have sex with a) People they know, and b) PEOPLE WHO AREN’T OLD FAT SLEEZY GREASEBALLS

So look, take your hand off it, do some laps of a pool or find thrity by anything but walking to KFC, buy clothes from somewhere besides Target, get a personality and go out and talk to ACTUAL REAL WOMEN. You might get laid if you’re lucky.

1. You don’t have to listen to lame, pseudo intelligent, meaningless artwank lyrics.
Fuck yeah, I think I just coined the term “artwank”.

You guys know exactly what I mean too, don’t you. I love music like I love eating food, I don’t give a flying fuck about how it’s presented. It’s the act of absorbing it that feels so good.

I’m sick and tired of bands that concentrate on making songs with pretentious, sooky lyrics trying to come across deep and important. I don’t give a fuck about your inner anguish or interpretation of heroin addiction. I want to nod my head like it’s a bobble head on a Hummers dashboard in Afganistan. By the way, the next person I hear describing a band, or any art for that matter, as “important” I will swiftly reply to with Deadly Face Fist of Judah. Road safety and good nutrition is important, bands are not fucking important.

Rammstein have solved this problem with extreme ingenuity; they sing in German so I have no fucking clue what they’re on about anyway. Even if you are German, you still don’t understand them because Till Lindemann just sounds like a grizzly bear eating a chainsaw and you’re too busy putting the flames out on your girlfriend’s face because you were too close to the stage.

2. Your band doesn’t shoot flames out of their face and deploy fireworks at the crowd.
Like I need to expand on this. Flames. Out of their faces. Can your band do this?


3. Best name, ever.
I can’t think of anything that is better than having the words “stein” and “ram” in your name. Are they named after the act of forcibly cramming a huge mug of beer down your throat? Probably not, but who cares! I like to think they are. Even saying it makes me happy. LDLDLDLDLDLAAAHM SHTEEEEYYYN.

4. They can be ironic without trying to be.
Arty faggots love irony. It’s the unoriginal artist’s emergency imagination. The only time irony is cool in any artform and especially music, is when it’s not forced. What the fuck am I on about?

Stay with me.

I watched Rammstein live the other night. They came on stage for an hour, and in that hour they managed to shoot flames out of every place possible including their face, play drums using explosions, wheel a huge cauldron on stage wearing a chefs hat and apron smeared in blood then shot flames at it, shoot pyrotechnics at the crowd, then at themselves, induce nightmares in the mind of every sleeping child within a 50 kilometre radius, appease Satan, ride a giant penis around the stage shooting paper jizz all over the crowd…

and then bowed ever so politely to the crowd and in a nice little voice said “Danke shoen” then left.

That ass fucked my mind.

5. Pure, unadulterated entertainment.
Rammstein don’t just punch out their best tunes with amazing fidelity, you can feel the heat from the flame throwers, you can see the firworks and stage antics, you can smell burning fuel, and when a cloud of confetti begins to float toward the ground after being shot off stage… you can reach out and touch it. It is truly an immersion of the senses.

Tool came on stage directly after Rammstein finished and immediately disappointed me. Now, Tool and disappointment are not two things that often go together. I love Tool, as do millions upon millions of people across the globe. But what they did, I can experience by putting my iPod in my ears. In better quality sound, too.

Tool, like many other bands, go on stage and just sing their songs and then leave. You quickly get over the wow factor that your favourite band is right there in front of you, then it’s time to add more to your senses what the album you just bought already has. Many like to defend this behaviour, especially Tool, with “it’s all about the music, not the band.”

This is a cop out. Let me fucking tell you something.

It’s not about either, it’s about the fans. The people who buy your albums, who pay over-inflated ticket prices to see you live, who supply you with a huge income and opportunity to live out your dream lifestyle making and sharing music with others. We bought your fucking album and know what it sounds like, and now we’ve paid 10 times the price to come see you live. Make with the witty stories, theatrics and fireworks you fucking smug human dukebox because you’re being left behind by people who can’t even speak English.

6. Your band doesn’t shoot flames out of their face and deploy fireworks at the crowd.

7. Rammstein teaches bogans culture and how to speak German.
Now we all know how stupid bogans are. They are the people who have just discovered Facebook and change their status each day to something about fighting someone, people who think Kirk Cobain was a hero for blowing his head apart with a shot gun because he was a drug riddled emo, people who wear clothing that advertises cars like Ford, Holden and other cars that can’t turn a corner doing more than 30km/h.

People who think bourbon tastes good.

Rammstein has the benefit of appealing to bogans due to the lead singer’s voice sounding like a Tyrannosaurus Rex fucking a Harley Davidson. Thankfully, it suits the music they do perfectly which means smart people like you and me like it too. Bogans also have a curious need to make meaning out of every song’s lyrics  so they can make learned conversation over dinner at the pub. To do this with Rammstein means to sit for hours on Google Translate, systematically going through each line of each song and then deciphering it into something that makes sense. Here’s the funny bit though, hardly any of it does. Sucked in, bogans.

8. Federal Department for Media Harmful to Young Persons has banned their latest album.
In Germany you can show porn to kids, they allow women to grow hair anywhere on the body below their neck,  you can buy a beer in Mc Donalds, but Rammstein’s album is banned. This is fucking hardcore.

Other things that are dangerous to children include nuclear testing, knife fighting, heroin injections and pools filled with razorblades.

But your favourite band is probably on my grandmother’s iPod.

9. The guitarist’s name is Paul Landers.
His last name is really fucking Landers. That’s so fucking rockstar that it makes Freddie Mercury look gay, and Freddie Mercury IS gay.

10. This.

After a good 2 hours of telling people to fuck off it was time to re-group and find as much free booze as we could. Jules, being a man of keen wit, had found a stash fit for a king, and not just any old king, I mean King of Boozeland. Now, where to go with all this stuff? “Hearson’s Cove, bro” said Zak, “you coming or what?”

“Fuck yeah” I said “What is it?”

“It’s just a sik little place we’re going to drink piss and watch the sunrise, it’s awesome aye”

“Fuck yeah” I said “Jules, we’re going to…” I look at Zak

“Hearsons Cove, bro”

“We’re going to Awesome Cove, Jules, let’s go”

BAM, into 2 Fourbies we climb, Jules ended up in the back-back fold-down seats in the back of Zak’s truck, upside down. “You alright bruv?” I said, “Yeah, this is quite comfy actually” he says. Sik cunt. I yell to the rest of the car “So tell me more about this whatsa-thing cove”

Rest of the car “Hearsons Cove”

Me “Yeah, Awesome Cove, why there?”

Rest of the car “Just wait til we get there, you’ll see”

We arrive in pitch darkness to this little spot and Jules and I struggle out of the back of the back-back seats. “Where are we?” says Jules, I have some stupid big grin on my face and look at him “Awesome Cove, bruv”. We grab the most important things first, beer, then go looking for firewood. Zak gets the stezza cranking with some tunes and everyone grabs a good bit of sand to park on and the chilling begins. Somewhere, somehow, and at some time, we got a fire started with about 6 tons of twigs. Langerz was onto it and in no time it was a raging tower of awesome only the way a sik cunt can create. Then it was walky time.

The tide at Awesome Cove HEARSONS sorry Hearsons Cove goes out a good half a K atleast, it’s rippled shallows all the way out to the edge of the sea and just as we reached it, there it was. The sun started rising. There’s a poem a few posts down from this one that describes it so I’m not gonna fucking repeat myself just because you’re too lazy to use the mouse and scroll button. DO IT NOW.

Right, so you got the sunrise thing going on, after that the tide started coming in and we all headed back to Sik Cunt Campsite where the fire had gone out and Jules had been trying to revive it with what he called “a log”. It was a fucking tree. Not a log. A tree. There was gonna be no more fire, that tree was already pissed off from being snapped the fuck out of its perfect little possy and shoved onto the remains of Langer’z firestorm. But the sun was up now, so who gave a shit? No one.

Some jerk started fanging his truck down the beach a bit and was messing up our chill for a while, when suddenly something fell out of it. BAM the lads are in the Jeep to investigate. When they get back they tell us it was an esky. “Did it have anything in it?” “Not anymore”. Sik cunts.

The rest of the arvo was spent swimming, slapping Jules on the stomach with thongs and getting barnacles stuck in our feet. I had a flight to catch by 1pm so we packed up and left, this time I was upside down in the back seat.


Langerz and Zak... sik cunts


Anja, Zak, AP and Langerz with a mouth full of children (or possibly red licorice)


AP, Jules and me




Scotty, AP